by Caro Savage
The three of them all looked at the little origami tiger, which she was holding up in front of her. It looked pathetic, crumpled, mangled by her efforts to break free. It was barely recognisable as a piece of origami.
‘It’s a tiger,’ said Bailey. ‘And it bites.’
Leonard snorted in contempt and his face twisted into an angry sneer. He hefted his knife with relish. She’d pissed him off and he was angry now. He was going to finish what he hadn’t quite started, and he was going to make sure it hurt. Except he wouldn’t get the chance to…
Bailey tilted the origami tiger so that the razor blade was visible protruding from the crumpled paper.
And at that exact moment the thin red cut on the side of his neck suddenly opened up into a large gaping gash. A geyser of blood sprayed up the side of his face.
She had severed his carotid artery.
He took a step backwards, a disbelieving expression on his face. He clamped a hand to the side of his neck in a vain attempt to stem the flow. Bright red blood now squirted between his fingers.
‘Leonard!’ gasped Amber, rushing to his side.
She pulled his hand away to get a look at the wound and a gout of blood jetted across her face. She recoiled in shock.
‘That’s coming out at five litres a minute,’ said Bailey.
Using the mangle for support, she pushed herself upright from her sitting position to her feet, gritting her teeth against the excruciating pain from her knee.
Leonard tried to lift his knife hand, but with his life force pumping so rapidly out of him he was unable to. The knife fell from his limp grip and clattered to the floor. He staggered backwards and sat down sharply against the dryer.
Amber stood there aghast, her face dripping with his blood.
‘Leonard!’
The jets of blood were weaker now, as his heart slowed down, pumping feebly over the surface of the dryer, getting smaller and smaller until they lapsed into nothing more than a faint trickle.
Leonard’s eyes glazed over and his head fell to one side.
Amber screeched a feral cry of torment. She spun around to face Bailey.
Bailey brandished the razor blade before her.
‘Want to try that little trick with the gas spray again?’ she growled.
Amber hissed at her. Even with her damaged knee, Bailey knew she could take her.
Amber looked down at her dead brother, then she glanced over her shoulder at the far end of the laundry. Bailey realised what she was planning and lunged for her.
But Amber was too fast. She bolted for the well. Bailey threw herself into pursuit, but her injured leg prevented her from catching up. She half-limped, half-ran, every step an agony, gasping and cursing to herself.
Amber wrenched open the lid of the washing machine which concealed the well. She climbed inside and disappeared completely from view, the lid clanging shut on top of her.
Bailey arrived a few moments later, panting hard. Pocketing the razor blade, she pulled open the lid and peered inside. The bottom of the washing machine drum had been modified to be opened from beneath, like a trapdoor. And it now hung open, revealing a mouldy brickwork shaft into the side of which were set ancient rusted rungs. The shaft disappeared down into darkness – a black maw that smelled of soil and dampness.
She listened. Silence.
Then, she climbed into the washing machine and began her descent. She gripped the rusty rungs, making her way stiffly downwards, impeded by her injured knee.
Soon, darkness had enveloped her completely. She wondered how long it would take to reach the bottom. She wondered if when she got there she would encounter Amber waiting to attack her, but she had no choice. For one thing, she was determined to apprehend Amber, and for another, she needed to escape from this place in one piece.
As she descended the shaft, bits of dirt and mould fell into her hair and at one point something scuttled across the back of her hand. And then suddenly there were no more rungs. She hung there in the blackness. Lifting her left foot from the bottom rung, she probed downwards into the void.
The tips of her toes brushed a surface of some sort. It must be the bottom of the well. Letting go of the rungs, she dropped downwards, crying in pain as she landed on her damaged leg. She fell to the ground, feeling rough, dry dirt beneath her face.
Wincing, she pushed herself to her feet and stood there, totally disoriented. The absence of light was complete and she had no idea which direction to go in. In the darkness, she could end up getting forever lost in some underground cave system, never to see the light of day again.
She heard a scratching noise. She froze, and then braced herself for an attack. It got closer. It passed by, down by her feet. A rat.
Silence once again. No sound of Amber.
If she wasn’t mistaken, she could detect a very faint air current, the smallest of breezes blowing on her face. It must be coming from outside. It was ever so slight, but it was enough to tell her which direction to head in.
She began to edge her way along the dried-up subterranean riverbed, wary, as she moved forward, that Amber could be lying in wait around the next bend. Pulling the razor blade from her pocket, she once more clutched it defensively in front of her. The ground was thick with sediment, and the stony ceiling of the passage was low and uneven, sometimes causing her to stoop down in order to continue. She limped along, grasping the walls for support, every other step sending a bolt of pain through her.
She willed herself onwards, pulling herself along with her hands. In the sheer blackness, she soon lost track of how long she had been stumbling along, but eventually, after what seemed like ages, she noticed the gradient changing slightly, moving upwards. The passage seemed to be opening up, getting wider, light beginning to filter in imperceptibly. So far Amber had not materialised, and Bailey came to the conclusion that she must have fled.
Finally she reached the mouth of the passage, the point at which the tributary had gone underground. She emerged to find herself standing outside on the rocky dry riverbed of what had once been the River Foxbrook.
All around her were trees and she realised that she was deep in the woods that lay to the north of the prison. The night sky was clear and a bright crescent moon shone down over the gently swaying branches, transforming all colours into a monotone palette of greys and blacks. There was no noise but for the rustling of the leaves in the breeze and her own soft panting.
Bailey peered around. She could neither see nor hear any sign of Amber.
She cursed to herself. She’d lost her. Amber had gone. She’d escaped. She’d had too much of a head-start. If only Bailey hadn’t been held back by this blasted knee.
She limped forward and sagged against a tree for support. Exhaustion now overwhelmed her. As she leant there, it suddenly struck home that this was the first time she’d been out of the prison since… since being incarcerated. She was finally free of the place. And it felt weird.
She stood there listening to the rustling of the leaves around her, savouring the tranquillity of nature, cherishing the feel of the rough bark under her hands.
Thoughts of Alice flooded through her mind, filling her with warmth and sadness. Bailey had done all she could to give her friend what she owed her. She reflected too on Poppy with a bittersweet pang of remorse. On an emotional level, Bailey was totally and utterly spent.
She started to think about what she should do now, how she could best contact Frank and what their next course of action should be.
But then a noise penetrated her thoughts… a long sibilant hiss carried on the breeze.
Her hackles went up. It was an eerie spectral sound.
Bailey spun around, one way and then the other, looking for its source.
And then she saw it. A figure in the woods, standing about fifty metres away, barely more than a silhouette in the shadows.
Although she couldn’t make out her face, Bailey knew Amber was looking straight at her.
‘This isn’t ov
er, Bailey!’ came the howl. ‘I’ll come for you one day!’
Bailey took a step forward. She blinked and squinted.
But the figure was no longer there. It had melted away into the woods, leaving only the branches swaying in the breeze.
110
The debriefing was finally over and Bailey needed some fresh air. Her right leg was still painful and stiff as she limped slowly along the corridor to the lifts and went down to the ground floor.
She walked out of the building, passing its iconic revolving ‘New Scotland Yard’ sign, and found a spot to stand on the pavement. It was a hot muggy July afternoon. London traffic roared past, whilst crowds of people streamed around her in all directions. The scene was reassuringly noisy and busy.
The debriefing had been in front of a tableful of the drugs detectives who had been overseeing and funding the undercover operation, along with members of the National Crime Agency, who were poised to pursue any links to large-scale organised crime, as well as detectives from the murder investigation team who had been investigating the prison slayings. Bailey had taken them through the whole affair exhaustively from beginning to end. It had been a draining but also cathartic experience.
After she’d escaped from the prison through the well and lost Amber in the woods, Bailey had limped to a nearby 24-hour petrol station and called Frank. He and a slew of detectives and uniformed officers had arrived not long afterwards and picked her up. Despite the excruciating pain in her leg, she had waved aside medical attention to accompany them directly to the prison, eager to identify the key players involved.
It hadn’t taken them long to locate and arrest Terry, but not before he’d managed to alert the Governor to the situation. Then she’d taken them down to the basement, where they’d recovered the bodies of Leonard and Poppy from the laundry and transformed the whole area into a crime scene for further detailed forensic analysis.
By the time they’d got to the Governor’s five-bedroom detached home in Hampstead, he had his solicitor there waiting with him in his drawing room. But his pleas of innocence had fallen on deaf ears. With some satisfaction, Bailey had personally read him his rights, cuffed him and taken him into custody.
For the time being, HMP Foxbrook had been put under the direction of an interim governor, who had sealed up the breach in the laundry and launched a complete review of prison security.
‘Bailey.’
She turned around. Frank had just emerged from the building behind her. He smiled.
‘That went well. They’re really pleased with you. This has worked out great for everyone. And I think your testimony will seal it for good.’
Bailey sighed at the thought of it. It wasn’t over yet. The Crown Prosecution Service were planning to prosecute the Governor, Terry and the members of the Ace Blade Crew, and Bailey’s testimony was going to be key to securing their convictions.
The Governor and Terry had each been charged with wilful misconduct in public office as well as serious offences related to the supply and distribution of illegal drugs. Both were currently being held on remand in the same prison on a secure wing for their own protection. Terry was being extremely co-operative as expected, in the hope of getting a lighter sentence and, much to the satisfaction of the NCA, had already begun to give up details about the organised crime group who were behind the supply of drugs to the prison. The Governor, on the other hand, was in denial about the whole affair.
Frank chuckled. ‘The last I heard, the Governor was demanding to talk to his “friend” the Home Secretary. He’s claiming that it’s all some kind of big misunderstanding.’
‘However much he’s paying his lawyer, I doubt it’s going to be enough to pull that off.’
‘I reckon he’ll be spending most if not all of his retirement at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Probably not quite what he was expecting when he signed up to the Prison Service.’
As for the Ace Blade Crew, they had been split up and were in the process of being moved to separate prisons around the country. They were facing prosecution for a gamut of offences, ranging from possession of offensive weapons, possession of mobile phones and possession and supply of psychoactive substances. But Bailey was sceptical that any further convictions would have much effect on their behaviour, particularly for someone like Toni who would no doubt just hook up with whatever chapter of the gang existed in whichever prison she was placed in.
‘They’ve sworn revenge on you,’ said Frank, his face darkening, ‘and they have associates on the outside who’ll be looking to get even with you. So it’s probably a wise idea to keep one eye over your shoulder from now on.’
Bailey shrugged it off. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Frank eyed her in admiration. ‘I don’t doubt that you will.’ He paused and snorted an ironic laugh. ‘You know, the drugs squad are under the impression that this whole outcome was part of this “new angle” that you were working on. I thought it better not to tell them that we were just stringing them along for most of the time. After all, they’re over the moon with the results, so why shatter their illusions?’
Bailey allowed herself an amused smile. She liked to see Frank looking happy. It was such a rare occurrence normally.
He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘This whole thing is certainly not going to do your career any harm, and… between you and me, I’ve heard whispers that a commendation might be in the works for you.’
‘I’m not interested in awards,’ said Bailey, shrugging indifferently. ‘I just want to catch Amber. As far as I’m concerned, the job’s only half done. She’s as much responsible for Alice’s death as Leonard was.’
A review of the forensic analysis from the prison would likely confirm the connection between the murders there and the original Hairdresser slayings. Leonard’s involvement now looked to be beyond doubt and his death tied up that investigation from a cold case perspective. But there was still the painfully outstanding issue of Amber. As Felicia Lee, Amber had already been a fugitive in her own right, but now she was also wanted for assisting Leonard and for directly murdering Poppy, and Bailey was determined to catch her, not least because of her complicity in Alice’s death. It really stuck in her craw that she’d let Amber get away and she knew she would never feel satisfied until she’d got her locked up, back on the right side of the bars. For Bailey it was a personal mission.
But it seemed that Amber had gone to ground. There was absolutely no sign of her anywhere. She had been clever enough to evade detection once before and she was no doubt putting those skills to good use again right now. She was a dangerous and devious individual and Bailey had killed the only person she’d ever been close to. Recalling Amber’s parting threat, Bailey now wondered if she herself had more to fear from a vindictive and vengeful Amber than from the ABC’s numerous affiliates.
She looked around her at the crowds of pedestrians, at the cars and buses whizzing past, at the windows of the office blocks overlooking her and she felt a chill go through her. She had a feeling that somewhere out there Amber was watching and waiting. Waiting to get her.
Unless Bailey got her first.
‘What’s on your mind, Bailey? You look perturbed.’
‘Oh nothing,’ she said.
Frank paused for a few moments.
‘How do you feel about coming back and working for me again? Undercover. On a more regular basis. I’ve got some interesting opportunities lined up. We make a good team you and me.’
Bailey reflected on his proposition. Like all undercover jobs, this one had taken it out of her and the last thing she wanted to do right now was plunge back into the extreme stress of that double life. But for how long would she be able to tolerate humdrum normality? That was one thing that really would drive her up the wall.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
He nodded slowly. He knew when not to push her. He adopted a lighter conversational tone.
‘So what are you up to for the rest of the afternoon? Back to the office? Bac
k to your sergeant’s exams?’
‘I’ve got to make a little detour to the tattoo shop first. I got this tattoo in prison. It’s ninety-nine per cent done. There’s just one last tiny bit to fill in and then it’ll be complete. I think the person who did it would appreciate me having it finished.’
111
They were now locked in for the evening and Crazy Mel sat at the desk in her cell completely absorbed in the process of making an origami animal.
Her long brown fingers intricately manipulated the piece of paper, folding it one way and then the other, shaping it into the desired form.
Lying to one side on the desk was the letter from Bailey. She’d received it in the post earlier that day. In the letter, Bailey had told her that the Hairdresser was dead, that the duppy was gone. She’d thanked Mel for the origami tiger. It had indeed protected her, just like Mel had said it would.
Mel’s fingers deftly creased the paper. First the ears, and then the legs, and now a tail. Fold by fold, it slowly took shape…
Hairdresser? Dead?
When it came to duppies, dead didn’t always mean dead. That was the thing with duppies. Yuh neva knew fah sure…
Acknowledgments
All of the team at Boldwood Books who worked so hard and expertly to bring this novel to publication.
Dorie Simmonds, my agent, for her astute advice, boundless enthusiasm and unwavering faith in this novel.
Sarah Cox, formerly of the Metropolitan Police, for her help in answering several questions I had around the structure and operations of the police.
Claire, my wife, for her immeasurable support and encouragement, and her perpetual willingness to listen to new ideas.
I read a number of factual books in order to try and understand the psychology and methodology of undercover policing. One which particularly stood out, and which is a fantastic read, is The Infiltrators by Philip Etienne and Martin Maynard with Tony Thompson.