Commander Ian Penrith smoothed his shirt over his belly, disturbing a few biscuit crumbs, which fell to the carpet. ‘With respect—’
Beckett was on her feet now, sliding her chair under the desk, her fingers digging into the fabric. ‘I don’t know why you bother saying that. Respect doesn’t come into it. It only means you’re about to say exactly what you want to, whether I find it offensive or not.’
‘With respect, I didn’t ask you to be here.’
Beckett chose to ignore him. ‘We were expecting James Mulligan to know most of the drug dealers, people traffickers and other criminals in London. Now it seems he’s little more than an amateur, a waste of our time and resources. Resources that, as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, are growing sparser by the day.’
Penrith waved a hand. ‘Yes, I read the memo. Budget cuts. Old news by now, surely?’
‘Memo?’ She made it sound as though he’d mentioned using an abacus to do his expenses, or something equally old-fashioned.
‘Email, whatever.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘Mulligan had a gun. He must have got it from somewhere.’
She scowled. ‘Well I doubt he made it himself. Anyway, the victims weren’t shot with Mulligan’s gun.’
His turn to ignore her. ‘As you’ve said, we also know he was involved in people trafficking. It’s not just about the drugs.’
‘Mulligan’s not going to talk. Listen to him. Whatever he knows, he’ll be killed if he shares it.’
‘Or his sister will.’
Beckett threw up her hands. ‘It’s not going to work, Ian. I’ll admit, it was worth a try, but we need to let Achebe handle the murders. We have other priorities, and yours is rebuilding the team.’
Penrith blew out his cheeks. ‘Which I’ve been trying to do. Every other officer seems to want to work for us.’
‘And how many of them have you considered actually speaking to yourself?’
Now he met her eyes. ‘None.’
‘Ian—’
‘I know.’ He shifted in his seat, the chair creaking. ‘I know we need more bodies.’ He smiled at the word. ‘But they have to be the right ones.’
‘This isn’t a game. We’ve lost three undercover officers: one dead, one who’s been medically retired and one—’
‘Who resigned during a tantrum.’
Beckett’s smile was cold. ‘For the second time. She’s made a habit of walking away. Now we’re down to two men, and Ewan Davies has no experience. You have to admit, it’s not ideal.’
‘I haven’t said it is. That doesn’t mean I’m going to recruit just anyone who shows an interest.’
Beckett exhaled through her nose. ‘She won’t come back, you know.’
‘Would you have her, if she agreed?’
‘No.’ The reply was immediate, as though Beckett had been expecting the question. She probably had. No doubt she had had questions to answer about the resignation of Detective Sergeant Caelan Small. Their prized asset, the jewel in their crown – gone. They’d already had to tempt her back once before, and Penrith wasn’t convinced they’d be able to do so again. He didn’t even know where she was. He’d wandered past her apartment building in Rotherhithe, had a word with the porter, but had discovered nothing. The man hadn’t even admitted to knowing her. She had a habit of earning loyalty.
‘What did you say to her?’ Penrith hadn’t asked before, but Caelan Small had told Beckett she was resigning during a conversation at the bedside of Nicky Sturgess, Caelan’s former lover and colleague, who had recently been injured in the course of duty. Sturgess had also left the force, accepting the offer of an extremely early and well-pensioned retirement. Perhaps Caelan was with Nicky, but he doubted it. From what Penrith had heard, Nicky now needed a full-time carer, and he struggled to imagine Caelan nursing anyone. The pair had a complicated, troubled history, their relationship destroyed by a decision Caelan had seen as the ultimate betrayal on Nicky’s part, when Nicky’s death had been faked to protect her during an investigation. Caelan, believing she had seen her lover murdered, had been shattered. When Nicky had eventually reappeared hoping to rekindle the relationship, Caelan, stunned and furious, had walked away.
Beckett didn’t answer Penrith’s question, a faint blush staining her cheeks. Penrith noted this with interest. Elizabeth Beckett’s emotions were usually imperceptible.
‘Ma’am?’
She met his eyes. ‘Does it matter? Caelan’s gone and we need to move on.’
‘I’d just like to know—’
‘All right. She said she wanted to take some leave. I told her she wouldn’t be able to stay away from the job for long. She called my bluff.’ Beckett blinked at the memory. Penrith knew she wasn’t regretting her behaviour or feeling guilty. She hadn’t risen to the rank of assistant commissioner by accident. He imagined the scene: Nicky lying unconscious in the hospital bed, Caelan angry and emotional, Beckett unrepentant.
‘And told you she was leaving permanently,’ he said.
Beckett nodded. ‘I also told her we were thinking about making Mulligan an offer.’
‘And?’
‘She wasn’t interested.’
Penrith pinched his lower lip. ‘Give me a week.’
He could hear the desperation in his own voice, knew Beckett would too.
‘To do what?’ She inclined her head. ‘I’ve already said I don’t want Caelan back here.’
‘She’s the best undercover officer we have.’
‘She was the best undercover officer we had, I agree, but she also played by her own rules. I can’t condone that.’
‘You don’t have to. I’m the head of covert policing now. If the shit hits the fan, it’ll stick to me. Your name won’t be mentioned; you can walk away without a scratch. Or a stain.’ Penrith gave her a sideways glance, wondering if she would take the bait.
Beckett looked down her nose. ‘Nice try.’
He laughed. ‘Come on. Let me speak to her at least.’
‘What will you tell her? That we can’t manage without her?’ She curled her lip, and Penrith smiled to himself. Beckett was pissed off because she knew it was true. Caelan had always been their star, and without her they were struggling.
‘Flattery won’t work. I’ll tell her about the victims.’
‘That’s Tim Achebe’s case.’
‘And Lucy.’
Beckett considered it. ‘A damsel in distress? She’ll see through you.’
‘Maybe.’ Penrith bared his teeth. ‘But she still won’t be able to say no.’
2
Caelan had driven to Barmouth for the afternoon. Early December probably wasn’t the best time to visit a seaside town in north-west Wales, but after days being trapped indoors by the weather, she had felt like escaping now the rain had finally stopped. Walking under the endless pale blue sky, the sea by her side, the beautiful Mawddach estuary behind her and the wind chilling her cheeks, was perfect. The village where she was staying was quiet, with a petrol station, two pubs and a grocery shop. People had been polite enough, even friendly, but the old urge to keep her head down was always there. Blending in, quickly becoming part of the furniture, had been vital to her safety for so long, it was now second nature.
It would take time to get used to being free.
She turned back towards the town centre, bought a tray of chips with a generous serving of mushy peas spooned over them, and found a bench across the road to perch and eat. Dressed in clothing of her choice, no need to report back to anyone about where she was or what she was doing. Spending her time reading, watching films, playing video games. Relaxing. Using her own name, smiling at people she met.
Telling the truth, living openly.
She had pretended to be someone else for so long, she had almost forgotten how being herself felt. Almost. But the solitude and the clean Welsh air were helping, the contrast with the bustle of London striking. If she didn’t think about the job she had walked away from, or about Nicky, she was happy.
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She dug into the chips, relishing the bite of the salt and the tang of vinegar. She was content, at least. She had decisions to make, and the time to think them through. She had a home to go back to in London when she was ready. She was healthy, she was young. She could start again.
As she ate, an elderly couple tottered by, arm in arm, the man carrying a bag of shopping in his free hand, the woman clutching an umbrella that she held over them both. Caelan nodded as they passed her, ignoring the sudden tightening of her throat. She crumpled up the polystyrene tray and dropped it into the bin beside the bench.
Clouds were beginning to skim across the sky.
* * *
Back at the house, she reversed onto the driveway, leaving the car ready as always for a quick getaway. She smiled to herself as she unlocked the front door. Old habits definitely died hard.
In the hallway she paused, listening. Usually she would step out of her shoes, but today she kept them on. With her phone in her hand, she crept down the hallway. The kitchen door stood open. Hadn’t she closed it? She thought so but couldn’t remember for sure. She stopped and waited.
Nothing.
She shoved the door open and marched inside.
The man sitting at the kitchen table, cup of coffee in one hand, chocolate digestive in the other, grinned at her.
‘You took your time.’
She stared at him, anger rising. ‘How did you get in here?’
Ian Penrith held up a bunch of keys, and Caelan shook her head. She leant against the door frame, ready to tell him where to go.
‘Your friend Mr Davies needs to be more careful,’ he told her, biting into the biscuit.
‘You mean you stole them?’
Penrith lifted his shoulders. ‘The keys were in his jacket pocket, which he’d left in my office. When I picked it up, they fell out. That’s not stealing.’
‘Couldn’t you just have knocked?’
A smirk. ‘Where’s the fun in that? Anyway, you would have ignored me.’
‘How did you know which was the right key?’
‘I didn’t. I brought the whole bunch with me and hoped one would fit. He’s living with his sister at the moment, isn’t he? He’ll have to hope she’s at home when he leaves work tonight, otherwise he’s in for a chilly evening under the stars.’
Typical. Caelan refused to be persuaded to smile back at him. ‘Still doesn’t explain how you knew I was staying here. Did Ewan tell you?’
It was Ewan Davies’s house. A former soldier and then police protection officer, he had transferred onto their team permanently just before Caelan had walked out. She liked Ewan, had trusted him as soon as they met. They’d worked together briefly, and the friendship between them had grown stronger. When he’d realised she needed a place to run to, he had offered her this house. He’d bought it when he was still in the army and rented it out, but was currently between tenants. On the border of Wales and England, it had seemed far enough away for Caelan to feel she was truly leaving her previous life behind. Now, suddenly, that life had barged back in, in the large and ungainly form of Commander Ian Penrith.
‘No, Ewan didn’t say a word,’ Penrith said. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I worked it out for myself. Used to be a detective, you know.’
‘Where did you park your car? I didn’t see it.’
‘In the pub car park, where I hoped you’d miss it.’ His eyebrows danced. ‘Thought I’d do my bit for local business and sample a half of bitter while I was in there.’
‘Very clever. What do you want, Ian?’ But Caelan already knew.
He smiled again. Somehow it never looked right on him. Penrith had a face made for scowling. ‘Well, we’re back here again,’ he said. ‘You resign, we run after you to beg you to come back into the fold. It’s becoming a habit.’
‘You’re going to beg?’ She moved further into the room though she didn’t sit down. ‘This should be interesting.’
He finished his coffee, thumped the mug onto the table. Reaching for the packet of biscuits again, he shoved a whole one into his mouth. ‘Is Detective Sturgess here?’
Caelan stared at him, the question stinging as though he had slapped her. ‘Nicky? No. Why would you think she would be?’
Penrith chewed, swallowed. ‘Then where—’
‘With her parents, at their house in Derbyshire.’ Caelan spoke without emotion. ‘Didn’t you know?’
He shook his head. ‘No reason why we should. She’s definitely not coming back, so it’s none of our business. I thought you and she might have patched up your differences.’
‘She’s made it clear she never wants to see me again. End of story.’
Penrith stared, and for a moment she thought he was going to sympathise. Instead, he took two more biscuits. ‘More fool her then.’
In spite of it all, Caelan laughed. ‘She blames me for what happened to her.’
‘And you blame Assistant Commissioner Beckett.’ It wasn’t a question; he knew the answer.
‘Did Beckett send you here?’
His mouth full, Penrith shook his head again, biscuit crumbs flying. ‘No,’ he managed to mumble. ‘This is my show now.’
‘Your show?’ Caelan gave in, pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. ‘It makes no difference. I’m not coming back.’
‘Let me tell you what’s going on before you throw me out.’
She snorted. ‘I can guess. James Mulligan.’
‘In a way.’ Penrith slipped a hand into his jacket, removing a brown envelope from the inside pocket. He opened it, unfolded the contents and shoved them across the table towards Caelan.
‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to see.’ Folding her arms, she turned her face away like a child.
‘I’ll explain, then,’ he said. ‘It’s a post-mortem report.’
She snorted. ‘Most people bring a bottle of wine when they visit.’
Penrith waited, but Caelan was determined not to blink first.
After a few seconds, he said, ‘The victim was a young woman. We’re not certain of her age, but her wisdom teeth hadn’t come through. Based on that and other factors, the pathologist estimates she was between fifteen and twenty-one. We don’t know who she is, or where she came from.’
Under the table, Caelan clenched her fists. He knew exactly how to draw her in. ‘Description?’
‘Dark hair, brown eyes. Thin almost to the point of emaciation. Evidence of drug use.’
She closed her eyes, seeing a face from the past, the face of someone she had failed. When she turned back towards Penrith, he pushed the papers towards her with a fingertip. She didn’t pick them up.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
He took a breath as though to steady himself. ‘She’d been beaten, raped, and not for the first time. She had injuries that proved she’d endured sexual abuse over a long period of time, and from a young age.’
Bile rose in Caelan’s throat and she swallowed it down. Penrith’s voice was a monotone, his face a mask. This was their job at its most sickening, crimes that tore them apart, filling them with a burning fury. She knew Penrith well enough to be aware of his ways of working, and was sure he wouldn’t be using this as a way of persuading her to think about a return. Beckett would manipulate the situation to suit herself without thinking twice, but not Penrith. Not this.
‘How was she killed?’ she asked, aware of the tremor in her voice.
‘She was shot in the back of the head.’
‘An execution,’ Caelan said softly. ‘Where was she found?’
‘Dumped in a bin on an industrial estate. She’d been restrained, burnt with cigarettes, and…’ Penrith stopped, shook his head. ‘You get the idea.’
‘And you haven’t identified her? Someone so young?’
Where were her parents, her teachers? Social services? But Caelan knew as well as any police officer that many young people were alone in the world, by choice or through the neglect and apathy of their families. Or to protect themselves
from those same families.
‘We don’t know,’ Penrith said. ‘She’s not been reported missing, as far as we can see. She’s not the first.’
‘What do you mean?’
He removed another envelope from the same pocket. He took out three photographs and studied them, then laid them on the table. Three faces. Three bodies. Three pairs of blank, unseeing eyes fixed on hers. ‘Taking during their post-mortems,’ he said unnecessarily. He pointed to one of the photographs. ‘This girl was found first. Evidence of violent sex, restraint, beatings. Shot in the head and dumped.’ He tapped the next one. ‘This boy – the same story, and he was shot with the same gun.’ Now his finger landed on the third face. ‘This is the latest victim – I’ve already mentioned her injuries.’ He nodded towards the envelope Caelan still hadn’t touched. ‘And you have her post-mortem report in front of you.’
‘You think they were sex workers.’ It was a statement, not a question. All the clues were there. Caelan stared at the three young, lifeless faces, a chill spreading through her stomach. ‘Have either of the first two victims been identified?’
Penrith shook his head. ‘No. We know the three are linked, though.’
‘How?’ Caelan couldn’t take her eyes off the photographs. These were children, their bodies brutalised, used and thrown away. She was numb with horror, and with despair.
‘They were all killed with the same gun, though their bodies were dumped in different areas.’ Penrith paused, taking a moment. ‘The bodies were washed, though whoever killed them didn’t comb their hair.’
‘What do you mean?’
Reaching into his pocket again, Penrith brought out a clear evidence bag. Inside was a tiny bright pink feather. ‘The pathologist found this in the hair of the male victim. The girls didn’t have feathers, but there was pink fluff in their hair that came from the same source.’
Caelan took the bag and studied the feather. The colour was vivid, garish. ‘They were all in the same place at some point,’ she said. ‘Held somewhere maybe.’
Time to Go Page 2
