by Tony Kent
Michael looked around, trying to recall where he had put his belongings the previous night. He found nothing in the bedroom and so he moved to the suite’s living area, all the while trying to mentally retrace his steps. It was no easy task. Michael had consumed more than half a bottle of whisky before Levy had let him leave Derek Reid’s house. And he had not stopped there. The impressive pile of beer bottles and liquor miniatures strewn across the room’s main table evidenced that. Whisky. Brandy. Vodka. There was even a half-finished tequila, a spirit Michael could never usually stomach.
It was an intake that guaranteed hazy memories.
Michael had awoken at 2 a.m. on the sofa nearest the bottle-strewn table, from alcoholic unconsciousness rather than from sleep. He had then struggled to his unsteady feet, moved to the bedroom and collapsed onto the room’s king-size bed, where he had drifted in and out for the next four hours. It was nowhere near enough rest to shift the whisky and spirits that still gripped him, but the blast of his hot morning shower had made a difference.
His luggage was on the smaller of the room’s two sofas. Across from where he had passed out. Pressing hard on his thumping temple with one hand, he opened the large holdall with the other and pulled out a leather washbag. On any other occasion he would have unpacked as soon as he entered the room. In that, he was a creature of routine, sometimes described as ‘a little OCD’, a concept he found absurd; how could anyone be ‘a little’ obsessive? Still, it was unique for Michael to be unpacked a whole night after arrival.
Shows what a damned mess I was, he thought.
The grief of the previous day suddenly washed over him again. It conjured back images Michael did not want to endure. He had seen enough of Derek Reid’s crucified body. Had thought enough of the horror of his friend’s death. And he had agonised, again and again, over the things he had done, all those years ago, to cause it.
Yet he just could not banish the images in his mind.
Michael dropped the washbag into the bathroom, breathing deeply, trying to calm his racing mind.
The music of the Black Eyed Peas suddenly blared out across the room. It seemed out of place, alien to both the time of day and to Michael’s own mood. For a moment he did not register the new sound he was hearing; a residual effect of his diminishing hangover. Then it clicked in his mind.
Sarah. Michael panicked. Why is she calling so early?
He looked around the room, searching for his smartphone. He could usually follow the sound of a ringtone, but his equilibrium was still suffering a whisky hit. It made a simple task like locating a phone by its sound much more difficult. The prolonged search only increased his panic, which in turn made his hangover worse.
Sarah’s favourite song was approaching its chorus by the time Michael saw the illuminated screen, peering from beneath a pillow.
‘Is everything OK?’ Michael’s voice was rushed. Fearful. ‘Are you both alright?’
‘We’re fine.’ Sarah’s words were reassuring. He heard her take a breath before continuing. ‘I’m fine. So is Anne. I . . . I . . . I just want you to reconsider. I don’t want you taking this risk. Not now. Not after what happened last night.’
Michael’s mind was slowly clearing by the second, but it was Sarah’s final sentence that cut through the fog.
‘What do you mean, “last night”? What’s happened?’ He instinctively picked up the television remote control and hit ‘power’ as Sarah replied.
‘Hirst did it again. He killed again.’
‘Killed who?’
Michael was confused.
Who else could be on Hirst’s list?
The answer came to him before the question was complete.
‘Jesus, no, Sarah. It wasn’t Tina Barker. Please tell me he—’
‘It wasn’t Tina, no.’ Sarah sounded on the verge of tears again. ‘But he has her. Maybe he has killed her, too. No one knows.’
‘Oh no, oh God no.’ The knowledge that Hirst had once again taken Tina Barker hit Michael like a kick to the gut. It would be her worst nightmare. ‘Then who did he kill?’
‘Steven Hale.’ Sarah’s voice caught on a sob. ‘The guy Joelle sent up to Manchester yesterday. The guy who was supposed to bring Tina back.’
‘Shit.’
‘And five others, Michael. He killed five other cops. The whole of Tina’s protection.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Every trace of a hangover was gone. Michael’s mind was working again, racing to the only logical conclusion. ‘That can’t be a coincidence. It can’t be a coincidence that Hirst got to Tina at the same time Hale did. He must have followed him. He must have found her by tailing Hale.’
‘What does that matter?’ Sarah’s voice was now a mixture of grief and confusion. ‘Why are you even thinking about that? What you should be thinking about is five dead cops and what that means. Because what that means is you can’t protect yourself against this guy. As long as you’re out there and in public, he can get to you. You need to come to us. You need to come to where you’ll be safe.’
‘I can’t do that, Sarah. And we’re not going over this again, either. I’ve made my decision.’
Michael could not face another debate. Not now. The fact that Hirst had Tina Barker – that the sick son of a bitch could be doing God knows what to her – was enough of a blow. Combined with the thought of Hirst massacring a house full of cops, Michael just did not have the capacity for more trauma.
Going another round with Sarah about running and hiding is the last thing I need, he thought.
Michael’s eyes flicked to the image on the bedroom’s television screen before he had the chance to think again. The sight of Joelle Levy about to address the assembled British press came as a surprise.
He reached for the remote to turn up the volume.
‘Sarah? I’m going to have to call you back.’
SIXTY-ONE
‘Joelle? Did you hear what I said?’
Levy started at the sound. She had not been listening, instead just staring blankly at the two empty crystal glasses that sat together on her desk. Now she looked up, distracted from her reverie. She wiped her eyes with her fingertips before responding.
‘Sir.’ Levy’s pitch was abnormally high, she noticed. She corrected it with a cough. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was miles away. Can I help you?’
‘Don’t worry about me. What concerns me is you. The press conference is due to start in five minutes. Are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Levy managed, her voice wavering with emotion. ‘I’ll be . . . I’ll be fine.’
‘You don’t have to be fine.’ Chief Superintendent David Rogers’ voice was as kind as Levy had ever heard it. ‘No one expects that of you. You’ve just lost a key team member. Not one single copper would think less if you give this one a pass. You’re only human.’
‘No, sir,’ Levy said, her voice suddenly firm. ‘I need to do this. Karl Hirst needs to be found and I want to be the one who does it, sir. I’m not walking away from this. Not after what he did to . . . Not after Steve.’
She took a deep breath, preparing herself.
‘I need to get the word out on this bastard so we can bring him down before he hurts anyone else. I’m going to make him pay for Hale. And with all due respect, and being genuinely grateful at the compassion you’ve shown me, doing that is all the TLC I need.’
Rogers did not reply immediately. He just met Levy’s eyes and held them.
‘OK,’ he finally said. ‘OK. Then I guess you’ve been through worse in your past, eh?’
‘Worse than losing Steve?’ Levy’s eyes remained fixed on Rogers’ as she replied. She knew what he was referencing. Her past in Israel, ‘No, sir. The people I’ve lost before, I lost them in a war zone. In a place where any one of us could have been killed on any day. You lose someone there, it hurts but it’s . . . well . . . it’s what you expect. Not like this. Not the way Steve went. I’ve never experienced anything close to that. And Karl Hirst is going to
wish I still hadn’t.’
A few minutes later Levy walked into Conference Room Four on the second floor of New Scotland Yard.
The inevitable barrage of camera flashes marked her arrival. They continued as she followed Rogers to the long table positioned ahead of a temporary blue partition wall.
Levy sat in the centre, with Rogers and Chadwick on either side. She looked down at her notes. Aware that video cameras and voice recorders were running. For a moment she was distracted by her own jacket cuffs. By the ornate silver buttons on black fabric. It was rare that Levy wore her formal uniform. It was usually only for press conferences, and she did most of those alongside Steve Hale.
Another reminder of what she had lost.
The slightest touch of Rogers’ hand on her own broke through. Levy looked up and began.
‘At 10 p.m. yesterday evening five members of the Greater Manchester Constabulary were murdered in and around a residential home in Salford. Ordinarily, jurisdiction over this tragic event would be taken by the Greater Manchester Police. However, I can inform you that the officers were in fact on duty and on location on behalf of Scotland Yard’s Major Investigation Team, providing temporary protection for a person we believed to be the likely target of attack: Miss Jessica Boon.
‘The individual we believed to be a threat to Miss Boon was convicted killer Karl Hirst. We will be distributing a number of photographs of Karl Hirst at the conclusion of this press conference and we will request that these be displayed as a matter of urgency on every real and online news resource available to the people in this room, and to the networks that employ you. For now I can offer you this single photograph, taken shortly before Karl Hirst was released from custody three years ago following fourteen years of a life sentence.’
Levy held up a copy of the photograph. There was little that was exceptional about the man it showed. Short – five foot seven according to Levy’s records – and slim, with a full head of thick, dirty blonde hair and a messy mouth housing teeth better suited to somewhere bigger. But even from a distance his cold, pale eyes stood out. Their disquieting effect was made worse by those cameras that zoomed in for a closer view.
Those eyes alone made the presence of the man who stared out from the image nothing short of chilling.
‘It is absolutely essential that we find Karl Hirst as soon as possible. He is wanted for questioning in connection to the murder of the five Greater Manchester Police officers I have discussed. He is also wanted for questioning in relation to the kidnapping of Jessica Boon, and for the murder . . . for the murder of Detective Inspector Steven Hale from Scotland Yard, who was in the address at the time of the attacks with the intention of bringing Jessica Boon back to London for the purposes of dedicated and specialised police protection. In addition, we wish to speak to Karl Hirst in regard to the recent murders of former Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales Phillip Longman, of London gangland figures Leon Ferris, Kevin Tennant, Harvey Ellis and Tyrone Leach, of retired solicitor Adam Blunt and – just yesterday – of criminal barrister Derek Reid.’
The room came alive at the long list of names. First a murmur. Then a rumble. Finally an outright cacophony. A tsunami of questions poured out from the assembled press, all drowning each other out.
Levy made no attempt to answer. Instead she allowed the assembled reporters to continue until they realised their questions were fruitless. The majority returned to silence and Levy quietened the rest with a lowering of her hands.
Satisfied, she continued.
‘No questions will be answered about Karl Hirst at this press conference. So please do not ask them. We are not here today to give you a story. That will no doubt follow in due course, but the purpose of today is to ensure that the public are protected from what we believe to be a very dangerous individual. For that reason we ask that the information and photographs we have given you here are disseminated as widely and as regularly as possible until we have found Karl Hirst. We ask any member of the public who may have any information about him to come forward immediately. It doesn’t matter what that information is. No mater how trivial. No matter how tenuous. We want to know it and we want to know it now. Please contact us on the telephone number or the email displayed on the front of this desk, and which we ask the TV networks and internet sites to display also. Finally – and I think this goes without saying in any event – we believe that Karl Hirst is a very real danger to anyone who comes into contact with him, so we ask that no member of the public attempts to engage him. You must stay away and contact the police. For your own safety and the safety of those around you, do not engage this man. Thank you.’
Levy rose to her feet without another word. Turning to her right, she ignored the avalanche of questions thrown at her from the reporters and followed Chadwick from the room.
SIXTY-TWO
Michael Devlin’s feet felt heavy beneath him as he took the first creaky wooden step that led from the Old Bailey Robing Rooms to its Bar Mess. On most days he would bound upstairs. Two steps at a time. Three, if he was feeling energetic. Today he took single steps. And he took them slowly.
The Old Bailey Bar Mess held special memories for Michael. Like most successful criminal barristers, he associated it with some of his greatest victories: murder, robbery, kidnap, blackmail. Michael had defended them all in this building, and every morning of every day of every trial began in the cavernous room he was now approaching. A room always filled to capacity with both the greats and the rising stars of his profession. Where barristers would begin their preliminary arguments long before the intervention of any judge; intellectual jousting that as often as not decided the winner before the hearing itself began. And a room where, so many times, Michael had marvelled at Derek Reid’s mastery of the art.
But never again, Michael thought as he took the final step. I’ll never see him here again.
The atmosphere in the Mess was unusually subdued. Derek Reid had been a very popular figure. It was no surprise, then, that every pair of eyes fell on Michael as he walked from the staircase to the head of the Mess. Just a few at first. Just those who had noticed his arrival. But within moments it was everyone. Thirty, maybe forty barristers. All looking with sympathy at the man they knew to be Derek Reid’s closest friend.
It was exactly that sympathy that Michael did not want. That he did not think he deserved.
You’d be looking at me differently if you knew what I’d done, Michael thought to himself, the guilt that had tormented him rising again. If you knew what I’d caused.
‘Michael.’
Jenny Draper had spotted him from across the room and rushed towards him. She was just feet away when she finally said his name. Michael turned in response and found himself engulfed by Draper’s arms.
‘I’m so sorry. I really am.’
Draper’s mouth was close to Michael’s ears as she hugged him. It made her low voice seem loud which, for an instant, made Michael suspect that her sympathy was for show; an attempt to pull herself into the attention he was receiving.
Michael shook off the thought. There was every chance that Draper was being sincere. He would not let his grief and his cynicism convince him otherwise.
‘Thanks, Jenny.’ Michael slipped back from Draper’s grasp as he spoke. ‘I, erm, I appreciate it. Genuinely.’
‘You really didn’t need to come today.’ Draper reached out and touched Michael’s upper arm as she spoke. ‘I could have had Levitt adjourn the case to next week without you. No one would have objected. Not in the circumstances.’
Michael nodded his head and offered a weak smile. What Draper was saying was not new; she had told him the same in the four voicemails she had left since 8 a.m.
‘I know that. But we’re not adjourning the case. Terry Colliver is giving evidence today, and I’m cross-examining him.’
The sympathy evident on Draper’s face disappeared as Michael spoke. Replaced by wide-eyed disbelief.
‘Michael, you can’t do that. You ca
n’t take on Colliver so soon after Derek’s murder. You won’t be up to it. You—’
‘I know my limitations.’ Michael’s voice was firm as he interrupted. ‘And I know how to best deal with this sort of thing. We’re on a roll in this case. And the Crown are on the ropes. We’re not backing off now.’
‘But Michael—’
‘There are no buts. This is happening and it’s happening today. The only thing I’m not going to do is talk to Simon. I just don’t have that in me right now. So I need you to go down to him, to let him know I’ve had some personal issues so I won’t be down – do not tell him what they are – and reassure him that we’re fit and raring to go.’
Draper did not respond; she looked put out at being overruled so abruptly. Colliver was the most important witness in the case and so Michael needed to be at his best. He could understand why – in the circumstances – Draper thought that impossible.
What she thinks is irrelevant, Michael told himself. Today she’ll just have to watch and learn.
‘And Jenny?’ he called out as Draper walked away.
Draper turned at the sound of her name.
‘Yes?’
‘Make sure you get his written permission for us to attack Colliver and O’Driscoll. Just like we’ve discussed.’
SIXTY-THREE
‘What I’m suggesting to you, Mr Colliver, is that when the police arrested you, charged you with the murder of the Galloway brothers and remanded you in custody to await trial, they had the right man, didn’t they?’
Matthew Cole QC’s cross-examination of Terry Colliver was drawing to an end. Cole had been questioning the witness for almost two hours. With little – if any – success. He had taken an approach that Michael found confusing. One which made no attempt to blame Simon Kash for the crime.
Unexpected, Michael thought. And naive.
‘And what am I supposed to say to that, eh?’
‘Mr Cole would like you to either agree or disagree with what he is suggesting, Mr Colliver.’
