by Dal Maclean
Across the room Will could see Ingham had been drawn to her door by the cacophony, but she’d made no effort to quieten it. She met Will’s eyes like a person facing their personal firing squad.
There would be no respite from the continuing misery of the day; the parade of betrayal and disappointment and recrimination. Will exhaled a tired breath.
“Thanks Des,” he said. “I have to go and see the DCI.”
Salt’s open, happy expression began to crumple slowly into concern. Perhaps he registered that Will’s behavior didn’t match with a man who’d achieved a life goal. But he didn’t say anything as Will headed for Ingham’s door, past smiling faces, pats on the back.
He didn’t pause until he was inside the office with the door closed behind him. The blinds were already shut.
He’d known Ingham wouldn’t be alone.
Scrivenor was in there, and he looked distraught, close to tears. Will had never seen that expression on his face before.
“You know what I have to say?” Will said. Scrivenor nodded. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“No,” Scrivenor said.
“Why Alec?” Will asked with despair. “Of all people. You. Taking Joey’s blood money?”
Scrivenor’s head dipped. He seemed smaller. Older.
“It wiz.” Scrivenor drew in a bracing breath through his nose and got control of himself. “Ah’d been a beat constable for a’most ten years, an’ there wiz nae sign that wiz ever gonna change. Ma face didnae fit. I’d get nae more responsibility. Nae more money. An’ the missus wiz fed up wi’ never gettin’ anythin’ better, nae matter how hard I tried or how good I wiz. Everywan leapfroggin’ me. An’ I wiz . . . I wiz bitter. Bitter as fuck.” He inhaled deeply again. “So . . . ah turned a blind eye to a few uv Joey’s brothels, to a few of his dealers. An’ ah got enough to take the wife to Marbella. Saved ma marriage.” His face twisted grotesquely. “An’ then, like it wiz some cosmic fuckin’ joke. Ah got promotion to DC. From naewhere. An’ ah wondered if it had been Joey pullin’ strings, ye ken? Ah’d scratched his back an’ he wiz showin’ how easy it wiz for him to control uz. But ah wiznae on the beat anymore, and ah didnae come into contact with Joey’s businesses. An’ ah nivver heard another thin’. Ah thought it wiz over.”
“But?” Will prompted.
“But, when June’s case come up, his flunkies got in touch. They knew ah wiz oan it, an’ they told me tae wait for instructions. So . . . ah got a mate who’s a doctor tae sign me aff wi’ scabies.”
“When did he tell you?” Will asked Ingham, sitting behind her desk, impassive and inscrutable.
“When he started as my DS,” she said. “And . . . he told me when Joey got in touch about June. That he planned to take sick leave. I agreed it was the best choice. But yeah . . . he told me Joey wanted June sent down.”
Will stared at her, incredulous. “You did know then? And you went along with it?”
Ingham shook her head with impatience. “It didn’t matter. We had the DNA sample and her confession. I thought Joey was trying to make sure there was a quick verdict as a favor for the bigwigs at the party. To take the attention off whatever they’d all been up to. If he helped them out then, they helped him later. And in the aftermath, no one looked deeper. Ricky Desmond had died doing a good deed, and that was all anyone wanted to know.”
“You knew Jamie and me were looking at cops on Joey’s payroll, and you also knew this about Alec?”
Ingham’s expression darkened. “It’d have made no difference to your investigation. It was an old mistake. Brought about by frustration and anger. I knew there might be a reckoning one day. But I hoped there wouldn’t be.”
Will sank into the second chair in front of her desk, beside Scrivenor.
“Now it’s a relief in a way,” Scrivenor said. “Ah knew he had that over me. Joey. An’ he could use it any time tae try tae make me dae things. It’s why ah told the DCI straight aff.” His face twisted. His brown eyes were pink tinged and wet under his bushy ginger brows. “For me, it’s deserved. But the missus. Tellin’ her we willnae be gettin’ the pension, even if ah dinnae get sent doon. An’ Jamie . . . .” He rubbed a palm roughly over his eyes. “Jamie’s gonna be disgusted.”
Will said, “I erased your name from the list.”
No one spoke for a second then Scrivenor uttered a weak, “What?”
Will grimaced. He was admitting a crime after all. “The original list of bought coppers on Joey’s computer. I read what you’d done. And I knew you’d be automatically dismissed and your pension voided. But what you did was long ago and pretty . . . pitiful. And it felt wrong. Too much punishment for a good man.”
At last, visible tears rolled down Scrivenor’s florid cheeks.
“And now you know I’m no better. Abusing my authority to help you, so . . . .”
“Showing compassion,” Ingham countered. “And a sense of proportion.”
That old load of crap, Will thought with self-disgust.
“Alec’s worked to make up for his mistake by becoming the best copper I know,” Ingham said. Soon all three of them would be bawling. “And he’s paid in guilt. And worry. What you did, it’s the same reason I trusted him all those years ago when he came clean with me. And I’ve never regretted it.”
“Thank you,” Scrivenor said to Will. He sounded gruff, embarrassed by his own emotion. “Thank you, Guv.”
“You can’t start to show me respect Alec,” Will said. He had to try. “Everyone’ll know something’s up.”
It took Scrivenor a second, but his moustache stretched in a game smile. Will forced a smile in return.
He felt worn. Soiled. Compromised. Unsure of just about everything, especially his own judgment. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret the instinct that had told him to spare Scrivenor just as he spared the families of Sanjay and Hansen.
“I was right about you,” Ingham said. “You’re a bloody good copper.” She held Will’s exhausted eyes. “And I’m proud of you.”
29
There had been a funeral.
A flag-draped coffin, carried shoulder-high. Then a hearse, led by Metropolitan Police Service officers, riding and slow-marching in familiar hushed silence past the bowed heads of their colleagues. All of them clad in their No. 1 uniforms, helmets, caps or bowler hats. White gloves.
It was a full MPS farewell for one of their most senior officers who’d died heroically saving two of her detectives, taking down a gangland godfather. Even the London public had turned out en masse to pay tribute, after the press had trumpeted the selfless heroism of Christine Hansen.
Will stood at the side of the funeral reception, hat tucked under his arm, white gloves inside it and watched as somber groups of people chatted and sipped their drinks. For all he tried to shake it, it felt again like déjà vu. A distorted echo of the last funeral he’d attended; the day, the evening, the first domino had toppled with Daria’s murder, to end here.
The night of PC Singer’s funeral, he’d stood on the sidelines with Hansen beside him. Sanjay had been eternally restless in his mind and heart—the wronged hero who had to be avenged.
He’d truly believed in them both.
Earlier that day he’d even caught sight of Charles Priestly, near the church in which Hansen’s funeral had been held—another echo. Monitoring events for Eve maybe. And that was something he still had to think through.
“You okay?” Tom edged minutely closer though they were already pressed shoulder to shoulder. He looked unintentionally startling in the plainest possible garb: black suit, white shirt and black tie.
Will smiled. “I’m fine.”
He’d told Tom the truth about Hansen and Sanjay. But not about Scrivenor, anymore than he’d told James. That was knowledge to be buried in an unmarked grave. Forgotten forever.
“You did the right thing,” Tom said for the hundredth time.
Will still wasn’t sure he believed that. But in the end this was all down to
him and he had to own it. He’d promised her white gloves. Honor in death. And he’d given it to her. And James continued to back him up.
“Still nothing on Nick,” Tom said; a statement rather than a question. He checked every day. His conscience wasn’t clear either.
“Not yet,” Will said, as he said every time.
Eddie’s body had turned up, along with both his sidekicks—dismembered, wrapped in plastic and duct tape—in a council skip in Bermondsey. Nick though, had vanished. He could have talked his way out, or escaped, or he could be buried in an unmarked grave, or lying in concrete. He could be still out there, living on resources he’d doubtless have salted away for emergencies. He could be back or he could be gone forever. Tom and Will didn’t have closure. But that was life.
Around the handsome reception room, Hansen’s family and friends were mingling with senior officers from the MPS. The well-judged eulogy had been delivered by Sir Ian, who was now moving round the gathering toward Will’s side of the room, engaging everyone with the perfect amount of gravitas.
The storm hadn’t broken yet. Or at least, not that part of it.
The press had more than enough to occupy it for now. The way Hansen had died, and the pursuit of the men who’d killed her, was media gold. On top of that, the shock revelation of who’d really killed Ricky—a young, beautiful celebrity who presented a crime-fighting TV program. And alongside that, the tragic story of June, whose life had been wasted in a huge miscarriage of justice. The press naturally forgot their own role in her public demonization and swiveled seamlessly to outrage.
There were more than enough spectacular headlines and think pieces to keep the media in a feeding frenzy for now and away from the most embarrassing implications of both cases.
But a tsunami was on the way, ready to sweep through the upper echelons of society and the MPS. All thanks to the furious ingenuity of Steggie, with assistance from Joey’s urge to make neat lists.
“Bearing up DI Foster?” Sir Ian asked.
Will hoped he was containing his disgust as he turned to him. But more than that, his growing concern that Sir Ian was not behaving like a man who knew his time was almost up.
“Sir. You?” His heart had picked up pace, the way it would facing any predator.
“Oh, I’m sad for the loss of a very fine officer. And a good friend.” Sir Ian looked entirely genuine as he said it, but he always did. “They look done in.”
Sir Ian nodded across the room toward a man and an elderly woman seated together, holding hands. Hansen’s mother was fine-boned and elegant, frail and bereft, clutching the folded blue Metropolitan Police flag from her daughter’s coffin. Hansen’s father had been too ill to attend. The man seated beside her was tall and Scandinavian fair. His pale eyes looked hollow. From the church service, Will knew he was Christine Hansen’s husband, but otherwise he’d had no idea what Carl Hansen looked like.
Every so often, someone stopped to say a few words to them, but their isolation and pain were too powerful to bear; no one stayed for long.
“Poor bastard,” Sir Ian said. “He never had a clue.”
Will turned his eyes back to him. He hoped his expression was merely interested, but his pulse raced still faster. This could never have been a harmless conversation.
Tom shifted restlessly beside him.
Sir Ian said, “We had dinner with them a few times. Christine was far too mercurial to confine herself to one man, but Carl thankfully didn’t know that. They way they lived . . . being apart most of the time. She was able to keep it from him.”
Sir Ian knew about Will and Hansen, then. Certainly—given the fact he’d just indiscreetly told a junior officer about Hansen’s private life. Was he threatening to smear Will with it by exposing Hansen’s corruption? Or just hinting at it in front of Tom, as a shot across the bows?
“Chris was a very strong woman,” Tom remarked. “A mentor to Will at the start of his career.” His features were set to his best model-blankness, but his eyes were wintry with knowledge.
Sir Ian held his gaze for a moment then looked away.
“Well,” he went on, as if the conversation hadn’t happened. “You and DI Henderson certainly put the cat among the pigeons DI Foster. I was just telling Lizzie Greig . . . .” She was the Justice Secretary, who’d gone to school with Sir Ian’s wife. “What an extraordinary officer you’ve proved to be. In fact Robin and I were saying only this morning that we must have a conversation about your future. And DI Henderson’s of course. But I wanted you to know from me that I’m giving you both a Commissioner’s Commendation. And I’m proposing Chris for a posthumous Queen’s Police Medal.”
Will gave a slow nod. He had no idea how to respond to being rewarded and lionized by a man who knew Will was working against him.
“Thank you sir,” Will said at last. “But we just did our job.”
Sir Ian gave a slow amused smile at the hopeless starchiness of the cliché.
“I know these posthumous things can seem pointless, but they do help grieving families,” Sir Ian said. “Your own sergeant, DS Anand. His family told me having that official symbol of respect for their loss kept them going. You too, I’m sure. I understand you and he were close.”
My, my, DI Foster. Close to two corrupt officers.
That mess of subtle bribes and warnings and veiled threats. How could Will not react?
Joey’s lists were meant to be protected within the ACC. Confidential, while the framework and support for investigations was set in place. But Sir Ian knew about Sanjay.
“I’m sure AC Hansen’s family will be very grateful,” Will said steadily. “The people on those lists acted with impunity for a very long time. I’m sure you’d agree; a reckoning is well overdue.”
Sir Ian’s expression changed subtly. To any observer, he was still smiling at Will. They locked gazes, but there was no fear in Sir Ian’s clear blue eyes. Maybe he thought Lizzie would protect him. Maybe he thought the establishment would prefer to cover everything up than turn over the rocks and expose what scuttled about underneath. Maybe he was right.
Maybe not.
Sir Ian’s mouth twitched upward. “Oh, very much so.” The expression in his eyes was careful. Will viewed it as an achievement. “We’ll arrange a meeting soon. Good to finally meet you, Tom. You must be very proud.”
He smiled brilliantly and moved off.
“Fucking reptile,” Tom hissed when Sir Ian was out of earshot.
Across the room, the crowd shifted and Will spotted James, startlingly handsome in his No. 1 uniform, sitting in a wheelchair, with Ben crouched down beside him talking to him. Ben was still barely willing to let him out of his sight.
Sir Ian was working the room toward them and Will could only hope James held cool. Once he’d realized Sir Ian had been involved in the abuse of the Grantham Close kids, his urge to take him down had become evangelical.
Will’s friendship with James now felt cell deep; unbreakable.
“We should go home,” he said suddenly.
“I’m up for that,” Tom straightened.
“You finally get to fuck me in uniform,” Will said. And home was even more attractive now that Cam had gone back to New York.
Tom gave a startled laugh. “I thought there were rules against that.”
“Yeah,” Will said. “That used to matter more.” He began to move toward the door.
“Will . . . .” Tom called.
It sounded nervous. Will stopped and turned back.
“This . . . last time,” Tom stumbled. “Last summer.” He grimaced. “When the danger was over . . . when it was just us together to just live, I thought it was. . . happy ever after, you know? But you didn’t.”
Will’s heart sank. “I tried to explain,” he offered.
“I know, but . . . .”
Will could see what the confrontation was costing him.
“We’re back to normal again. No more imminent death distorting things. Making you think you f
eel things you maybe don’t . . . once it’s all over. So I need to know. This time. Are you? Do you . . . ?” Tom trailed off with a frustrated grimace.
“Last time,” Will said gravely. “We established. You were right, and I was wrong.”
Tom’s gaze was anxious and searching. “Yeah?” he said at last.
Will unleashed a lopsided grin. “Yeah.” He wasn’t going to allow any more doubts between them, not if he could help it. “It’s a fair cop, Guvnor. Life sentence I reckon.”
Tom smiled too, but his eyes burned with intensity.
“No mercy then,” he said.
“No mercy,” Will agreed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dal Maclean comes from Scotland. Her background is in journalism, and she has an undying passion for history, the more gossipy and scandalous the better. Dal has lived in Asia and worked all over the world, but home is now the UK. Her first book, Bitter Legacy was a 2017 Lambda Literary Award finalist (Mystery), and was chosen by the American Libraries Association for their 2018 Over the Rainbow Recommended Books List.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First of all I’d like to thank, as always, my brilliant editor Nicole Kimberling, who did so much to whip Blue on Blue into line. As an editor and publisher Nicole is the honestly best around, as is the principled, supportive and all round inspiring operation that is Blind Eye Books. I was incredibly lucky to land the Bitter Legacy series there—though truthfully, I had no idea when I sent in that first draft of DS James Henderson’s unexpectedly challenging flat share, that it could go anywhere at all, far less become the bedrock for three books. The whole experience of pulling these books together with BEB has been brilliant fun.
I have to say a huge thank you to the intrepid Marilyn Silverman for taking on a book with so many British spellings and accents and producing a splendidly forensic copy edit. To Jess Faraday, for kindly double-checking everything. And to Ginn Hale, queen of action scenes (and writing in general) for her guidance, and for always taking the time to help me out.
I really have to thank my poor long-suffering family for putting up with years of me disappearing into Bitter Legacy Land, for days and weeks at a time.