Blue On Blue

by Dal Maclean

  “I don’t know who to ask,” she replied. “I’ve never been in trouble before.”

  Fuck, she sounded about twelve, Will thought with a pang. “Your fiancé? Andrew? Could he help?”

  Emily disintegrated as if he’d yelled at her. “I can’t! I don’t want him to know!” she wailed. “I should just tell the truth shouldn’t I? I don’t need a lawyer for that.”

  And that was the jackpot. An interview with a suspect who believed calling a solicitor made them look guilty. But Will couldn’t do it.

  “Try your parents’ lawyers,” he suggested. He slid a self-conscious glance at James, but James nodded, so clearly he couldn’t do it either. So much for hard-nosed, stop-at-nothing cops.

  It took the best part of an impatient hour though, for a Mr. Neish to arrive and consult. And all the while, Will and James knew Simon would be reporting in detail to Joey.

  Tick tock.

  Eventually, they had to discuss strategy with Ingham, but Hansen at least had already gone. And they didn’t mention their plans for the next day to anyone.

  Finally, just after 9:00 p.m., they started again.

  “Miss Dalton would like to cooperate fully with your inquiries,” Neish said. He was gray-haired and sober, probably much the same age as Simon, but he seemed much older. Maybe the conscience-free pursuit of power and money was rejuvenating. “I understand that you’ve discussed mitigating the charges against her in exchange for her cooperation?”

  “My superior officers have indicated they will consider it.” Which was as far as Will could go for the tape.

  Emily’s whole body was shaking visibly, like rigors, and Will couldn’t blame her. Apart from her own prospects of a jail sentence, testifying against Joey would take serious bravery. But then, she had no real choice.

  James started. “Tell me what happened with Ricky Desmond.”

  Emily closed her eyes, then forced them open again. “We were at a party. I was with Joey then. I was just a kid and I was angry. I thought I was tough. I thought I was in love. That night . . . Joey’d brought some girls as entertainment. But more than that. There were . . . children. Young children. I hadn’t seen that before. That night we were all drinking hard and snorting lines. But I needed air. I’d had a lot to drink already, but I took a bottle of vodka with me. Some of the things they were doing . . . to the girls and . . . the kids.” She gulped a breath. “Rick had gone downstairs to get some more coke I think, and when I passed him to go outside, he followed me. We talked a little but he made me nervous. He always made me nervous. When I tried to go back inside he just . . . lunged at me. He wouldn’t have done it in his right mind; he was too scared of Joey. But, he was crazy high.” Her face twisted. “He pulled me into the alley at the side of the house and he trapped me against a wall. He started dragging down my pants. I was struggling, but it felt as if . . . like a nightmare . . . like trying to move through treacle. I shouted for help but the street was empty.” Her hands went to her face, then her hair, then the top of her head.

  “Go on,” James said.

  “Somehow, I realized I was still holding the bottle. It shows how drunk I was that I didn’t smash it over his head sooner. He was stunned when I did it, staggering back and . . . .” She gulped for air. “I don’t know why . . . I lashed out with the broken bit of the bottle and it slashed his neck. It cut my hand too. There was blood . . . everywhere. Rick’s and mine. And I did it again. I stabbed him with the bottle to stop him screaming.”

  “What happened then?” Will asked.

  “One of Joey’s girls came out.” Emily sniffed hard. “And then she went to get him. And he said he’d fix it. He got me away. And then . . . I heard the police had arrested someone.”

  “But you didn’t come forward.” Which was the point at which Will’s disgust with her overcame his pity. “To prevent an innocent person being sentenced for your crime. You could have claimed self- defense.”

  “It would have ruined my life,” Emily said with desperate appeal.

  “And rather June Winton than you, right?”

  “Joey said she was an addict,” Emily said. “He said she was living on the streets and she’d have a better chance of surviving in jail. That she’d volunteered.”

  Will made a scornful sound. “Who’d volunteer for life in prison, Emily? If you believed that, it was because you wanted to. Because it was her or you.”

  Will half-expected Neish to leap in to demand a break, but he didn’t. “What about Daria?”

  Emily shook her head. Her voice was thick with grief. “That night. She was the one who came out and found us. And got Joey.”

  “Thirteen years ago,” James pointed out. “Why wait till now to blackmail you?”

  “She recognized me when I started onscreen work on TV.” She exhaled heavily. “She got in touch through my agent. Can you believe that? She called herself ‘Katia.’ She said she had evidence, and she wanted a lot of money. So . . . .” She made a nervous movement with her hands. “I contacted Joey. What else could I do?”

  Will folded his arms and sat back in his chair. If she was waiting for understanding she’d be waiting a long time.

  Emily grimaced. “I hadn’t seen him since just after Rick died. But he said he’d sort it again. His neck was on the line too. He knew who Katia had to be. She must have been crazy trying it. But then she kept giving his people the slip. So when she contacted me again I agreed to give her the money in exchange for the photos.” Her eyes, when she looked back at Will, were pleading. “She chose the place. In Soho. Joey said he’d send someone. But his man was late. I gave her the money, but she hadn’t even brought the photos like she promised. She laughed at me, and she threatened me. She was vile. But then she tried to leave and I had to keep her in the room somehow. So I stood in front of the door and I wouldn’t let her out.” Emily pressed her fingers hard against her mouth, throat working, swallowing down vicious memories. “I hadn’t even thought to bring anything to defend myself. But she had a knife in her bag, and we were struggling for it . . . .” Her breath was a sob. “I’d only ever been in one fight before . . . the one with Rick. My hands got cut and so did hers and then, Joey’s man came. She tried to shove the door closed. But he got in.” She heaved for air.

  “Can you describe him?” James asked.

  “Big. Tall. He looked like . . . an executioner. All in black . . . a black hoodie and he had a balaclava with holes for his eyes. And black gloves. I never saw his face but he sounded local . . . South East. He grabbed her by her hair and forced her down on her knees and I thought she’d scream but she couldn’t catch her breath. She was crying . . . looking at me.”

  “You brought her there to be killed,” Will pointed out.

  Emily wrapped her arms round her slim frame again and began to rock back and forth in the chair. Suddenly, irresistibly, Will was reminded of June, doing exactly the same thing.

  “I thought they’d just scare her off,” she wailed. “But . . . he shot her. And I threw up.” She rubbed her nose, smearing tears and snot over her cheek. “He got so angry but there was no time left to clear it properly . . . her friend was coming back. So he wiped the door handle and the handle of the knife and he told me I had to leave the flat exactly two minutes after him. No sooner, or later. I had a hoodie on too and no one noticed me. Then I tried to put it out of my mind, like Rick. I just. . . I thought. . . I hoped maybe because she was an addict. . . a hooker. . . I thought you’d . . . you wouldn’t try very hard.”

  Scarlett had believed that too. And it was probably, exactly what was happening in her own case.

  “She was a person,” Will said. He went on instinct. “You know her flatmate was murdered too? Scarlett Monk?”

  Emily swallowed. “I didn’t tell him to do that!”

  Will tried not to show his surprise. He waited.

  “She made him angry,” Emily blurted. “He was so furious by then with the whole thing. He said she marched right to his office, right to him,
and handed over a USB stick with all the photos. He said he knew she needed to be disposed of but he liked her balls. That’s what he said. She was full of herself, and he liked her balls.”

  Scarlett had held Daria’s secrets then, the night Will had met her. While she was crying and denying and playing the innocent, she’d known what had happened and why. And he couldn’t really blame her. In her position, with Joey on her heels, he might have tried to strike a deal with him too, even knowing the chances of Joey letting her live weren’t high. Still better probably, than her chances if she’d given the information to the police.

  He hated that she’d had to make that calculation. He hated how afraid she must have been. He hated that she hadn’t trusted him. He hated that that he understood why.

  “But he still had her killed.”

  Emily flushed, streaks of dark pink paint on shock-white skin. “He said she flirted with him, so he took what was on offer. He was actually going to let her go. But when he finished, she acted like she wasn’t afraid of him anymore.” Emily rubbed an eye tiredly. “Like they’d made a deal, and they were equals. And she told him she’d been to a lawyer as an insurance policy. ” Emily trailed off. “He knew she was bluffing, being cocky, but . . . that was her last chance gone.” Her face twisted. “No one disrespects Joey. ”

  Oh, Scarlett, Will thought. Why couldn’t you ever just relent?

  Emily pressed her lips together hard until they stopped trembling. “What now?” she asked.

  “Now,” Will sat forward. “We want you to tell us everything you remember about the parties Joey ran with his dad. Everything.”

  “He’ll kill me,” she said.

  “Not if he’s put away first,” James said. “And don’t all the kids he used, the kids whose lives he ruined, don’t they deserve some sort of justice? Even now?”

  Emily hung her head, and after a long terrified silence, she told them, for the record, all she’d seen and knew.

  James and Will both decided to go home for the night. They probably should have stayed together in the station for maximum protection, but neither of them was willing to admit it. They both needed respite.

  It was just after half past ten when Will let himself into the house on Warren Road. The lounge was empty, but the table lamps were on and Will could see light under the main bedroom door. He hadn’t warned Tom he was coming home. He’d wanted to give him a surprise.

  He stood for a moment just outside the open lounge door, eyes closed, trying to center himself. But he was weary, as he’d never felt weary before, exhausted by relentless paranoia and stress and betrayal.

  Afraid of what was about to happen. Totally incapable of turning away from it.

  He stood indecisively in the middle of the hallway, unsure whether to go and to take a slug of whisky to help knock him out, or not. But as he turned to head for the kitchen, his mobile rang. So he slid into the lounge instead and closed the door quickly, in case Tom was asleep. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered anyway. “DI Foster.”

  A loud sigh. “At last.” It was a woman’s curt irritated voice. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day! You don’t return your missed calls Inspector. Which is why I’m having to phone so late.”

  Will scowled at thin air as he wandered over to the sofa. He also hadn’t gone through his email properly or opened his post. In between escaping execution and trying to expose institutional corruption.

  “Who is this?” he snapped.

  “My name is Jessica Harrington,” the woman said as if he should know. Her voice was very grand. “I provide legal advice for the English Collective of Prostitutes.”

  “Uh huh,” Will said cautiously.

  “I was given an envelope. Someone asked me to pass it on to you urgently if she didn’t contact me within a certain time frame. And since she hasn’t. . . .”

  “Scarlett,” Will breathed.

  “You were expecting this?” the woman asked. He could hear a frown.

  “No,” Will said. Like Joey, Will had underestimated Scarlett’s determination and her will to fight back.

  “She gave me your number.”

  “Yeah, she had my card.”

  “She said it was urgent. She seemed to be in fear of her life so . . . .”

  Will exhaled heavily. “Yeah. She wasn’t wrong.” He sank down, to perch on the arm of the sofa and brought Jessica up-to-speed.

  She was silent when he finished.

  “She wouldn’t tell me what or who she was afraid of. Scarlett didn’t ask for advice. She was incredibly pigheaded. I think that’s why I liked her so much.”

  Will smiled. “Yeah.” He paused and considered. It was as far from by the book as you could get while still vaguely accepting the rules of the job. But the circumstances again necessitated desperate means. “Miss Harrington? Can you open the package and tell me what’s inside?”

  Jessica didn’t speak for a moment. “Is viewing what’s inside going to place me in danger?”

  “Ah.” Will grimaced at the wooden lounge floor. “Possibly. But only if anyone finds out you’ve opened it. And I’m not telling.”

  He heard a huff of unwilling amusement.

  Jessica said, “I’d have done it anyway. For Scarlett, not for you.” He heard sounds of rustling. “There’s a folded note inside and some photographs. They’re—Oh.”

  “I know,” Will said. “Read me the note first.”

  Jessica’s voice was as steady as his. “It says, ‘Hey Copper. I don’t know why I’m trusting you, but I am. If something happens, don’t let me down. And tell him it was me.’”

  Will could hear Scarlett, brash and bright, saying the words, graciously appointing him her backup plan. Her avenger. Even that revealed a reluctant faith that touched him.

  “Can you take shots of the photographs and forward them to me? Then put them back in the envelope and lock them away in a safe place until I can get to you?”

  He could hear Jessica’s breathing. “Stay on the line.”

  Within a minute, the images started pinging in to his phone.

  Four showed various angles of a single scene. Nighttime, streetlights, a deserted pavement, a dazed and bloody girl with purple hair, a broken bottle in her hand. Kneeling, eyes vacant, over a blood-soaked corpse. Recognizably Ricky Desmond. Recognizably Emily Dalton. The images seemed to have been taken close to the scene from different angles; perhaps Emily had been too shocked to register what Daria was doing. The next five were from further away; more grainy, a wider view of the scene. They showed three men with Emily, standing over the corpse. One of them, a younger Joey with his arm round Emily, apparently leading her away. Another man crouched beside the body, while the third held the broken bottle.

  Will realized only as he looked at conclusive photographic proof of Emily’s guilt and Joey’s involvement, that he’d more than half-believed Daria’d been bluffing too. That her blackmail material wasn’t strong at all; otherwise, she’d have used it long ago.

  Scarlett had called her naive. Emily had called her vile. But she’d just been trying to survive in her vicious world.

  Ironically, only that morning Daria’s evidence would have been game-changing. Now, it was just one more push toward what they’d been planning to do anyway.

  “Thanks, Miss Harrington.” His voice was quiet and subdued.

  “She hated the police,” Jessica announced, as if Will didn’t know. “Don’t let her down.”

  Tom was sitting up in bed when Will walked into their bedroom, textbook on his lap, and a notebook beside him. Old school. John the cat lay against him on top of the duvet on Will’s side of the bed.

  Tom looked up at Will’s entry with surprise, and then delight.

  “You didn’t say you were coming home!” He was bare-chested—he always slept naked—and Will was no longer going to second-guess why the most beautiful man he’d ever seen wanted to live with him in Leyton.

  “Surprise?” Will gave a sad try at jaz
z hands.

  Tom smile slid to a frown. “Something’s happened.”

  Will shouldered off his suit jacket. “Emily confessed.”

  Tom’s expression cleared. “Fuck, Will, that’s . . . congratulations?”

  “Yeah,” Will said. He began to pull off his tie. Tom’s eyes followed the movement. “Except . . . .” His sadness bled into his voice. “We found out that Hansen’s probably on Joey’s payroll.”

  The wrench of Tom’s expression from encouragement to stunned disbelief would have been funny under other circumstances. Will told him all he could as he stripped off the rest of his clothes; the hard fact that he and James couldn’t afford to trust her anymore.

  When he finished, Tom was ashen. “What are you going to do?”

  Will pulled back the duvet and climbed into his side of the bed, flopping onto his back to sink into the mattress with a groan of ecstasy. Tom chucked his book and notebook onto the floor and slithered down onto his side, watching Will.

  “Joey’s not gonna slow down now until he’s removed Emily,” Will said. He held Tom’s eyes. “And us. Jamie and me. Permanently. Or we’ll be set up to take the fall by people we work with. We have too much evidence against him.”

  He tried to explained his and James’s thinking—that their window of survival was now very narrow. That they were essentially on their own. Will didn’t mention that he and James also thought that pushing the situation to a crisis point was the best way to protect Tom and Ben.

  Tom propped himself up onto his left elbow as the import of what he was hearing began to hit, staring down at Will with growing distress. He watched Tom’s expression slide from alarm to horror. Then his attempt to keep his emotion inside. Tom had pressed his lips together hard by the time Will finished, but his eyes were wild with panic.

  “We can’t see another way,” Will said, almost pleading. “I’m sorry.”

  Tom dropped back down onto his pillow and held out his arms. Will rolled into them, heedless of John’s outraged yowl and swift exit.

  Both their heads lay on Tom’s pillow and their bodies were aligned head to toe, foreheads pressed together, feeling each other’s breath. Watching Tom’s pain, Will didn’t feel brave at all.