Blue On Blue

by Dal Maclean

  “What do you mean?” James asked.

  “I’m going to arrest him.”

  James eyes bugged. “What?”

  “I’m going to do what I’d do to anyone we’ve amassed evidence against. Take him in, question him and given the case we have, charge him.”

  “But you know he has people in place all through the—”

  “Anyone in here who tries to help him, given the evidence we have, is going to be breaking cover. June’s case is hard evidence of corruption in the MPS. There are holes opening up all over the dam. They can’t plug them all. But the only way to start the ball rolling before Hansen or, whoever the fuck covers things over . . . before we’re taken out—is to publicly attach Joey to the whole scummy story.”

  “He’d get bail,” James said. “And once he’s loose. . . .”

  “He’d still be facing those charges. And you think he’ll leave us alone even if we stopped now? We’re safer having charged him. We’re safer in the light. He knows everything we know Jamie. He knows how deep we’ve dug and that Hansen can’t control us now without blowing her own cover. Joey knew that when he set up the first hit on us. There’s no way back. We’re dead men walking, looking for an accident or two.”

  “You’re talking about going in there without armed backup?” James asked. His incredulity was total. “He’s not going to let you just arrest him, and walk out with you!”

  “If I try to organize backup, Joey’ll be warned before the ink’s dry on the form. Someone would stop it. But if he harms an unarmed police officer, on his premises to arrest him, even with senior management in his pocket, he’ll struggle to cover it. I’ll wear a bodycam.”

  “And he’s not going to see that and deal with it? There’s a flashing red light. And it beeps so people notice they’re being recorded.”

  “There can be a lot of distracting stuff on a stab vest. Like a radio on the other shoulder on an open channel. Anything I get goes to secure servers. I’ll tell him it’s a recording if he tries anything. And I’ll leave my testimony behind on my computer and with you, just in case.”

  “Not much point,” James said. “If I’m in there with you. It’s easier to kill or frame a single cop.”

  Will exhaled heavily.

  “I appreciate it, Jamie. But one of us should be here, to make sure anything I get is seen.” James opened his mouth to protest, but Will barreled on. Time for honesty. “Some of this . . . it’s not all abstract and noble for me. It’s personal. I can’t let it go. I owe Sanjay. And I know that’s unprofessional, but that’s how it is.”

  “I know,” James said. “I have my own ghost to avenge. So I’m going with you.”

  Will held his challenging stare.

  Steggie. James had taken him to a ball. And Steggie had loved him.

  “You’re right,” James went on. “We have been on our own all along.” He gave a thin, hard smile. “Do you trust me?”

  Will didn’t have to think about it. “A hundred percent.”

  “Me too. Joey still thinks Hansen’s leading us by the nose. I agree that the only chance we have now is to attack from the front, make it all public, flush out some of the coppers he owns. Cut the head off the snake and see who tries to stick it back on.”

  “That’s a shit metaphor,” Will said. He couldn’t begin to voice the gratitude he felt. The guilt for getting James involved.

  But he held out his hand and James shook it.

  It was heading for eight o’clock that evening when the interview with Emily finally began.

  Will and James had scanned, zoomed and printed out the images they’d need, while Simon Callaghan consulted with his client. And they’d strategized. Will would take the lead; James would slide in the knife. That was the plan.

  Ingham and Hansen and God knew who else, were watching on monitors in a neighboring office. So Will knew Joey had at least one representative observing—and Simon of course was his too. On the whole, they may as well be beaming this direct into Joey’s office. But that wasn’t even going to slow them down.

  Emily’s expression of huge-eyed reproach though, when Will and James walked in, felt surprisingly painful. Will genuinely liked her. Even after he understood what she’d done, he couldn’t just turn that off.

  “Two Detective Inspectors for one interview,” Simon greeted them. “This is an honor.”

  He was in his fifties, with thin, aquiline features and pale green, piercing eyes. The little hair he had left was cropped close to his skull, but he was also fantatically fit and very tanned, which made him look younger than he was. Mark had told Will once that Simon barely drank alcohol, played squash and ran every single day with no exceptions; an exercise in self-discipline and control. He wore his expensive suits beautifully, and he was very good at clubbable all-adults-together bonhomie.

  “Mr. Callaghan,” James said, as he laid a DNA testing kit with deliberate care on the table. Emily’s eyes fixed on it as if he’d put a scorpion down instead.

  “DI Henderson,” Simon returned, all cordiality. “How’s your father? And DI Foster. Both of you together. I’ll be the envy of my younger colleagues.”

  “Shall we get on?” Will asked.

  Simon raised his eyebrows, as if Will had been gauche, and boorish. But Simon had years of practice in the business of subtly undermining and flustering opponents and Will didn’t give a fuck.

  He sat down and switched on the recording device and he wondered if James was feeling the same bubbling tension, the urgent need to act. They couldn’t fuck this up.

  “Before we waste anymore of my client’s valuable time or mine,” Simon began.

  Here we fucking go.

  “I must say,” Simon went on. “This has been an extraordinary performance, even by the notoriously lax standards of the MPS. You arrested my client—a public figure—at her place of work without even offering her the chance to come in for a voluntary interview. I have to warn you—there will be consequences.”

  “Your client was arrested in order to obtain samples for evidential comparison with material relating to two serious offenses obtained from crime scenes.” The many provisions of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act were as deeply engraved in Will’s mind as the alphabet.

  “You arrested her purely because of a sample she did not give voluntarily,” Simon said. “Am I correct?”

  Will tried to sound bored. “You’ve been given disclosure Mr. Callaghan.” Though not, of course, everything. They needed a few tricks up their sleeve. “You know we arrested Miss Dalton on the basis that a sample of her DNA, found by chance on an item of clothing, matched material from two past crime scenes.”

  “And how exactly did you establish the DNA was my client’s?” Simon asked sweetly. “Since she’s never given a voluntary sample?”

  Emily was marble pale, staring at her hands, clutched together on the tabletop, as if she was trying to ignore people making an unpleasant scene beside her.

  “Quite the contrary,” Will said. “Miss Dalton gave a sample of her DNA willingly. Didn’t you Emily?”

  Simon chuckled. “Come on DI Foster, Miss Dalton gave that sample as part of her role as a TV presenter. She did not voluntarily provide a DNA sample to be used in any police inquiry.”

  “Nevertheless,” Will countered. “The sample was taken in good faith and with an audience to witness that. There’s no question it was voluntary.”

  “No question? I beg to differ!” Simon declaimed. He was still playing. Not even out of first gear yet. “Given she was not informed what the sample was going be used for, it should never have been tested. And if that is the sole basis for arrest—”

  “Mr. Callaghan,” Will said. He had no more time for Simon’s dance moves. “You’ve been informed your client’s DNA was found at Ricky Desmond’s murder scene thirteen years ago. We have photographic evidence suggesting your client was in Mr. Desmond’s orbit at that time.”

  Simon changed gear effortlessly. “That is a staggering a
llegation. Given the fact the MPS sent a woman to jail for life for the Desmond murder. How can anyone trust that . . . ?”

  “If we can get on Mr. Callaghan?” Will drawled.

  Simon’s nostrils thinned. A hit.

  On cue, James slid a photograph from the long-ago party across the table. “Do you recognize this, Emily?” he asked.

  Emily still sat aloof, as if the three of them were too unbearably embarrassing to acknowledge.

  “What’s this?” Simon scoffed.

  “Do you recognize the girl in the photograph, Emily?” James asked again. “Standing close to Ricky Desmond.” Emily studied her hands. “Emily?”

  She glared at him, then at the photograph. Her expression transformed to disbelief. As if she’d seen something impossible.

  “Of course she doesn’t,” Simon snapped.

  “We’re not asking you, Mr. Callaghan,” Will retorted. “Your client must be allowed to answer.”

  Simon’s anger was at last real. But then Joey was in that photograph too.

  “My client declines to comment,” Simon retorted. “She’ll give you a written statement.”

  Predictable. But a “no comment” interview wasn’t that easy for an amateur to maintain.

  “Do you recognize the girl, Emily?” James asked again.

  Simon leaned back, arms folded, waiting for his pupil to perform.

  “No comment,” Emily said. Her beautifully modulated voice was firm.

  “Do you recognize this?” James slid another photograph in front of her.

  Her eyes widened. “No comment.”

  “For the tape, the image shows a zoomed image of a tattoo of a rose. From the left upper arm of the young woman in the picture. Emily, do you recognize this one?” James slid a third image across the table.

  She stared at it then whipped her head round to look at Simon. He shook his head minutely.

  “No comment,” she said.

  “For the tape,” James said. “The image shows a grouping of tattoos on Miss Dalton’s left upper arm. There’s a rose at the center.”

  “You went onto my Instagram!” Emily exclaimed, outraged.

  “We’ve gone more places than that,” Will said.

  “Countless thousands of people have tattoos of a rose,” Simon said.

  “Please look at these images side by side, Emily.” James pulled the two pictures together. Close zooms of both tattoos. Both roses. Both colored lilac. Both with a tiny purple insect at their center. Identical.

  Emily drew a shuddering breath. “No comment.”

  “You knew Ricky Desmond,” Will said.

  Emily pressed her lips tightly together. “No comment.”

  James slid another photograph to her. “For the tape I’m showing Miss Dalton an image of Mr. Desmond fondling an adolescent girl, apparently under the age of consent.”

  Simon drew an audible breath.

  “We can see what kind of man he was, Emily,” Will said. “Did he try to assault you? Did you kill him trying to defend yourself?”

  Emily gasped a breath. “I can’t—no comment.”

  “You went to these parties with your then boyfriend. Joseph Clarkson.”

  Simon sat up straighter in his chair.

  “No comment,” Emily whispered.

  “You must have known those girls were underage.”

  “No! I mean no comment!”

  “Did you go to other parties run by the Clarksons? Parties where even younger children were raped and abused?”

  “Those are outrageous accusations!” Simon exploded.

  “Didn’t you wonder where the children they used, came from Emily? Did you even give it a thought?”

  “That’s not fair!” she burst out.

  “They were kids from a care home,” Will pressed on. “With no one to defend them. No one to save them. Don’t you feel even a bit ashamed?”

  Emily squeezed her eyes closed as if that could make Will disappear. “No comment.”

  “June Winton was abused at those parties. Then she spent most of her life in jail for a crime she didn’t commit.”

  “I don’t know her!”

  “Daria Ivansecu told her friend she anticipated a big payout. Was she there when Desmond was killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said hopelessly.

  “Did you hold a gun to her head and pull the trigger?”

  Emily’s wild gaze held Will’s. “No!”

  “Then someone else was with you?” He saw it in Emily eyes. Bingo. “Did you lure Daria to Soho to be killed?” She made a loud sound of distress, close to a sob. “Did you set her up, Emily?”

  “I can’t.”

  “My client needs a pause,” Simon interjected. He looked considerably less urbane than he had before the interview began, which Will counted as a score. “You’ve deeply distressed Miss Dalton with these wild and sordid accusations.”

  “Oh dear,” Will said. “Tea?”

  James chimed in cheerfully, “And we can take a sample of Emily’s DNA while we wait.”

  Simon’s mouth thinned. Rage.

  “This is why you cooked up this arrest,” he said. “To force Miss Dalton, with borderline legality, to give you a DNA sample she could otherwise have refused. And which you can then misuse.”

  Will smiled at him with obnoxious good humor.

  “Mr. Callaghan, I’m going to ignore that provocation. We’re talking about two murders, linked to DNA we have good reason to believe is your client’s. We had reasonable cause for this arrest and she’s now required to give a sample.” He looked at Emily. “Do you understand?”

  Emily turned wildly to Simon, but his only response was a small terse shrug.

  Simon had to have known his browbeating tactics were unlikely to work on experienced interrogators. They wouldn’t stop the collection of a DNA sample. The purpose was to muddy the waters and to establish a technical defense for a future court case. But had he warned Emily?

  James pulled on a latex glove and opened a testing pack. This time they were going to do the test themselves. This time they were holding onto the sample until it got to the lab.

  “You know how this is done, Emily,” James said.

  Emily wrapped her arms protectively around her body. Her face was bloodless, eyes huge with panic and if Will had ever doubted they had the right person, those doubts were gone.

  “Since they arrested you,” Simon told her sourly. “They have the power to restrain you if necessary and to take the sample. Don’t worry though my dear.” He glowered at Will. “This is far from the end of it.”

  Tears began course down Emily’s cheeks. She looked bereft.

  “Miss Dalton?” James asked, relentless. And with a loud sob, Emily opened her mouth for the probe.

  Will didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he let it go in a sigh of relief.

  But Emily’s whole life had plummeted to catastrophe in the space of an afternoon.

  He just had to remember June Winton, and pity slid back to determination.

  “Emily.” Her bewildered, reddened eyes flicked to his. “You have to consider your own safety from this point on. Even if you say nothing, that will not make you safe. You know too much. You’re now a dangerous liability.”

  Her gaze didn’t leave him. They’d come to the crucial stage—hooking her in to her new, terrifying reality.

  “What exactly are you trying to say DI Foster?” Simon demanded.

  Will ignored him. “As it is, we’re looking at voluntary manslaughter, murder, soliciting murder, conspiracy to murder, multiple counts of perverting the course of justice; that’s a very long stretch. Or . . . some of those charges could possibly be reconsidered if there were mitigating factors. If you cooperate.”

  “Inspector!” Simon sounded as if the concept of a plea-bargain was an offense to his puritan sensibilities. As if limiting the damage to his client shouldn’t have been his own first concern. Except Emily wasn’t the client he was focu
sed on.

  “Either way,” Will went on. “You have to strike first Emily. While you still can. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Emily held his gaze. Her eyes were blank with fear, nostrils flaring. “Emily? Do you understand?”

  Breath shaking and heaving, she nodded once.

  “So,” James said, brightly. “Tea or coffee, Mr. Callaghan?”

  25

  Will and James went no further than the wall across from the Interview Room door while Emily consulted with Simon, leaning there silently, shoulder to shoulder, praying it had worked.

  Neither of them wanted to encounter Ingham or Hansen or any of the dog and pony show that might be taking place in the room in which they’d been observing. Will wondered now if Hansen had insisted on involving Ingham, because she knew Ingham was as bent as she was.

  Simon was on his feet gathering up his papers when Will and James walked back into the room.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to recuse myself from this case. Miss Dalton isn’t inclined to take my advice. I also have a conflict of interest here, with an established client.” Neither Will nor James responded. Their silence spoke for them. Simon’s eyes narrowed with resentment. “No one else from my firm will be available to Miss Dalton either, for that reason.” Because Simon knew damned well what Joey would do to him if he allowed it. Simon lowered his voice to urgent venom. “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing. Because a young woman’s life’s at stake. Which I intend to raise at the most senior levels if anything happens to her as a result of your behavior.”

  “Was that an attempt to clamber onto the moral high ground Mr. Callaghan?” Will asked. “I wouldn’t bother at this late stage.”

  The expression on Simon’s face cycled through righteous fury then shock to incandescent outrage in the span of a second.

  He marched past Will and James and out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  James rubbed his nose. “He plays golf with Sir Ian you know.”

  “Does he really?” Will said. “Let’s hope they both lose their balls.”

  Emily was watching them from the Interview Room table.

  “You need to get another solicitor,” James told her.