The Bluebell Informant

by Nick R B Tingley

  #KillerPolitician

  Giles loitered a little down the street, watching Barker’s march of disgrace as Harris held a brief conversation with Parsons. When the talking was over, Parson gave a brief, courteous nod to Giles, turned sharply on his heels and strode down the street to catch up with the escort party. Harris stood next to Giles, but didn’t say a word. Instead the two detectives just watched in quiet contemplation until the last of the noise had died out and the crowds in the street had fully dispersed.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Harris said, an odd expression on his face. ‘You are a bitch.’

  A broad smile crossed Giles’ face and the two detectives shared a little laughter and, for a moment, they both forgot their worries as the aroma of fresh bread wafted towards them from some unseen apartment.

  When the laughter subsided, Giles placed her wrists together and held them up to Harris.

  ‘You had better arrest me too,’ she declared, giving a little nod of approval as Harris stared at her. ‘It is only right. I put you through quite an ordeal today.’

  Harris stepped closer to her, staring deep into Giles’ eyes. His hands rose up to meet hers and, before she realised what was happening, he gently lowered them back down to her sides. He smiled at her, a slight twinkle in his eye.

  ‘We needed a confession from Barker,’ he said, releasing hold of Giles’ hands and holding up her phone. ‘The case was on dodgy ground without it. Thanks to you, we now have one. And if what I’ve heard is true, you are much more valuable out on the streets than disgraced and drummed out of the force.’

  He looked out towards the street outside as Parsons gently pushed Barker into the back of a patrol car.

  ‘This isn’t over.’

  Giles nodded. ‘I assume you got my message?’

  Harris’ face lit up a little. ‘Yes, I did,’ he replied, turning with Giles to head back towards the cathedral. ‘Miss Carew forwarded your message on to me.’

  ‘Alison Carew was involved with this.’

  Harris stopped and turned to face her, his eyes searching her carefully.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s why Barker killed her. Only two people knew of my destination and my intention to leave the train at East Croydon – you and Alison. There were two men waiting for us when we left the station…’

  ‘Then why did she forward the message on to me at all?’

  Giles shrugged but her eyes were still keen and thoughtful.

  ‘It gets worse. One of the men was a policeman – Detective Sergeant Doyle. And Alison said she was recruited by senior officers in the Met. She was going to tell me the names before Barker…’

  She hesitated. The moment replayed in her mind – the neat bullet wound appearing between Alison’s eyes before the force of it flung her back against the wall. Giles hadn’t even had time to grief for her…

  Harris raised a bemused eyebrow.

  ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘That’s why Barker killed her – to stop her talking. And everything she said was confirmed by Doyle as well. If what he told me is true, the entire force may be compromised…’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Giles shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘But we have to find him. Barker tried to run for it when I was interrogating him. I knocked him out and left him in a car park near Croydon station.’

  Harris nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have a car do a drive-by, but he’s probably long gone by now…’

  He placed a hand behind Giles’ back and, with a gentle push, continued their walk along the street. Up above them, Southwark Cathedral seemed to loom over them like a great, gentle giant watching over them, keeping them safe from the knifelike influence of The Shard.

  For a moment, Giles glanced over her shoulder at The Shard, remembering the razor cuts to her neck and the scarf that she had worn to hide it for so long. In that moment, she even panicked, thinking of the scarf that still lay abandoned on the wall nearby, thinking of the scars that were meant to be hidden.

  She turned to Harris, almost expecting him to be eying them up, repulsed by their vicious ugliness. But, to her surprise, he was paying them no attention whatsoever. Even when he looked at her, his eyes didn’t drop. It was almost as if they weren’t really there.

  As they reached the spot on the wall where Giles had been talking with Barker, they came to a natural stop. The scarf was still there, fluttering in the breeze as it unravelled itself from the railings. It would come free in a moment, then it would be gone – a good blast of wind would whip it up into the air and that would be an end to it.

  Harris wasn’t watching the scarf, instead he stared up at Southwark Cathedral, admiring its gothic beauty.

  ‘We have to be very careful how we handle this,’ he muttered, looking about him. ‘There’s no telling how far the service has been corrupted…’

  ‘You believe it too, then?’

  ‘I don’t want to believe it at all. But after the day you’ve had, it would be hard to believe anything else.’ He turned back towards her, his eyes flickering over to the scarf as it waved in the breeze. ‘Did you find out what you were looking for? I mean, did Barker give up any more details?’

  ‘He wasn’t my informant, if that’s what you mean?’

  She heard Harris catch his breath. Giles shrugged in return.

  ‘It’s not so hard to believe. My informant knew who I was when he first called me – he made a point of speaking to me and no one else. That screams of someone who’s done their research – and to a man like Barker, my ethnicity would be the first thing that he would’ve noticed. A man known for his racist views seeking help from an Asian detective – I didn’t buy it, did you?’

  ‘You knew?’ Harris spluttered. ‘All along…’

  ‘I suspected,’ corrected Giles. ‘But there was always a chance. Either way he must have known something about my informant. That being said, there’s a timing issue…’

  ‘You mean why draw attention to himself now?’

  Giles shook her head.

  ‘No. Max was gathering proof against Haines months ago. Up until a few weeks ago, Barker thought Haines was going to make him the Prime Minister. Why would he be plotting to bring down the man who was going to make his career? It didn’t make sense.’

  ‘Your informant had a problem with Haines six months ago.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Giles. ‘Barker couldn’t have been my informant. But he must have known that there was one, and he certainly must have known that I was the contact or else why draw me in to this whole thing? He’s in this whole thing deeper than he’d like to admit – I just can’t figure out how…’

  Giles rubbed her head and eyed the fluttering scarf. Her mind returned to the moment when the two of them were sat on the banks of the River Eden earlier that day…

  Everything had been so much simpler then…

  ‘Max is still out there,’ she whispered. ‘Somewhere…’

  ‘And what about the Bluebell Killer?’ Harris asked. ‘Was he lying about that too?’

  Giles thought for a moment.

  In truth she hadn’t asked herself that question yet. Sure, Barker’s story made sense with the facts: it would explain why Donnovan had an alibi for some of the murders and how the killer eluded them for so long.

  But then there was the question of this Haines character. Giles had never even heard of him up until now – and gangsters very rarely stayed off the police radar for long.

  And Doyle and Alison – two people who proved beyond a doubt that something was interfering with the police force…

  Was it really too fanciful to believe that Barker really was caught up in the middle of a conspiracy?

  What is truth? What is fiction?

  ‘We need to track down Detective Sergeant Doyle,’ she muttered. ‘He was the one who tried to kill Barker. If we bring him in, he might talk to save his own skin…’


  ‘I’ll put out an alert on him,’ Harris replied, taking out his phone and beginning to dial. ‘Only one thing though – he will deny all knowledge. It will be his word against yours. How do you intend to prove your story?’

  Giles thought for a moment.

  ‘Do you still have the gun?’

  Harris nodded, gesturing vaguely back the way they came. Giles nodded her understanding.

  ‘That gun belonged to his colleague, whoever he was. If you can match the prints to someone other than me and Barker…’

  ‘Then we might be able to get a confession,’ replied Harris, a small smile stretching across his face. ‘I’ll get on it.’

  Harris stepped away as he made a phone call. As he spoke down the phone, Giles watched the scarf with quiet interest.

  The wind was picking up a little as a rain cloud began to gather in the distance. The silk scarf fluttered this way and that like a white creature itching to be free. With each flutter, the scarf released itself from the railings until one final gust sent it up into the air. Giles watched as it drifted across the façade of the cathedral, moving elegantly towards the river and the stronger air. Soon it would be floating off across the waters of the Thames before finally diving down into the river and drifting out to sea.

  But Giles was not to see that. The last she saw of the scarf was as it disappeared down the street, heading towards the riverbank – drifting higher and higher with each gasp of breeze.

  And she felt relieved.

  On the other side of Borough Market, in a blue transit van, Doyle sat quietly in the passenger seat. The patrol car passed by and turned down a side street.

  In the space behind his seat, he heard a collection of clicks and snaps as the three men in the back loaded and cocked their weapons. The hooded kid in the driver’s seat had watched the patrol car pass with remarkable calmness and, now that it had disappeared, wasted no time in starting up the engine and beginning their slow and calculated pursuit.

  The van pulled out into the road, the kid manoeuvring it down the side street and slotting in behind the patrol car, being careful to allow a couple of cars to stay between them so as not to look too suspicious. In the back seat, Doyle recognised the figure of Barker talking almost endlessly to the detective sat next to him and, for a moment, Doyle wondered why they didn’t simply take the shot now and be on their way…

  No, he reminded himself, we must not be hasty.

  ‘They’re taking him back to Kent,’ he muttered, looking up at the signposts as the patrol car began to head south.

  ‘Well, we’ll know in a minute or two, won’t we,’ replied the kid.

  It was not long before Doyle was proven right. As the patrol car continued past Croydon, the kid gave a nod of confirmation and called out to those in the back to make ready.

  It was a long while before the opportunity presented itself. The road was fully immersed in the countryside and the heavy traffic was now no more than the occasional car passing in the opposite direction. Blind corners and a long descent marked the start of Titsey Hill and, as they snaked their way through the green countryside and dark woodlands, the driver of the patrol car began to slow down to avoid skidding from the road.

  The source of the River Eden wasn’t far away – a little to the east of their present position. The Bank Holiday sun had been driven out by grey clouds and the first spits of rain began to fall…

  For Doyle, the setting couldn’t have been more fitting.

  To Giles’ surprise, Harris had never hotwired a vehicle before, nor had he ever driven a ‘commandeered car’.

  She led him round to the driver’s seat of the Micra and gave him a short lesson. He watched with boyish glee as Giles instructed him to connect the severed power cables and touch the starter wires together. As the engine sprang into life, Harris looked like a child at Christmas, beaming around graciously as Giles sat back in the passenger seat and watched him shift the stolen car into gear and pull away into the traffic.

  They couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind the patrol car, but Harris was a careful driver and Giles suspected he was being even more so considering that he was driving someone else’s car. As they approached the top of Titsey Hill, the sky turned dark and rain began to fall.

  Neither of them paid particular attention to the smoke plume that rose up in the distance as they were plunged into the woodland. As Harris navigated the tight turns, Giles stared at the tight drops along the side of the road where motorists were protected by only a few sparsely spaced bollards.

  It was on the tightest corner of the lot that Harris slammed on the breaks, bringing the car screeching to a halt. A grey-black plume of smoke rose up through the trees below them, drifting across the road ahead. It looked to Giles like the billows of a large bonfire but, as she followed Harris’ gaze down to the hill below them, she finally caught sight of the patrol car, crumpled against a tree thirty feet down the hill. The wreck was still and peaceful with no sign of movement inside.

  They were out of the car in seconds, both sliding perilously down the hill as they headed straight for the stricken car. Harris reached it first, his eyes peering in at the vehicle’s passengers as Giles arrived alongside.

  ‘The driver is dead,’ Harris called out, moving around to the back doors and looking inside. ‘Jesus, Parsons.’

  He moved forward and wrenched open the door, placing his fingers against DS Parsons’ neck as his colleague collapsed motionlessly into his arms. Harris shook his head violently and began to check the body.

  ‘Parsons is dead too. Gunshot wound to the chest.’ He glanced up to the next seat over. ‘And Barker is gone.’

  Giles heard him, but didn’t respond. In seconds, she traced the car’s last route down the hill until she was back up on the tarmac of the main road. Her eyes darted keenly back and forth as she traced a path further up the road before spinning back towards the crashed patrol car.

  ‘Skid marks. At least five metres long…’

  They had enough time to break then.

  ‘Bullet casings all over the road…’

  She sprang to her feet and raced back down to the patrol car, her fingers nimbly examining the punctured tyre before turning her attention to the small holes that riddled the bodywork.

  Twenty, no, thirty bullet holes.

  She glanced up at the windows along the side of the car.

  Single bullet holes. One for the driver. One for Parsons.

  ‘This was not a luck-of-the-draw attack,’ she announced, taking a few steps back. ‘This was well thought out.’

  ‘An ambush?’

  Giles turned and looked at the ground around her, tracing her way back up to the road once again.

  Tyre tracks. Only one set off the road.

  ‘Someone pulled over here recently.’

  ‘On the edge of tight bend?’

  Suggesting?

  ‘They pulled over after they crashed the car…’

  ‘And Barker?’

  ‘They took him with them.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t run. Patrol cars have locks to prevent the occupants from bolting for it. If he got out, it was because the attackers let him out.’

  Giles stepped closer to the wreckage and looked sombrely on the crumpled figure of DS Parsons.

  ‘Someone stole him from us.’

  There was a moment of silence. The clouds overhead were darker and the rain harder. Harris moved over to the patrol car, took one more look at Parsons and then collapsed against the side, slipping down the bodywork until he was sat up against the wreck. He slowly put his hands into his jacket and pulled out his phone, all the while fighting back the tears in his eyes.

  As he called for help, Giles bent down and picked up a brass-coloured bullet casing that she rolled around in the palm of her hand.

  A .45.

  These men would be alive if you hadn’t…

  Giles lowered herself t
o the ground and sat cross-legged amongst the tracks and fragments of rubber and metal. She didn’t move from that spot until long after the back-up had arrived and, even then, it had taken Harris a fair time to persuade her to leave with him.

  Barker was gone. And the scent was cold.