An Eye for an Eye (Detective Kate Young)

by Carol Wyer

  ‘I’d pick the boys and girls up from a drop-off point near the big supermarket just outside Stafford, drive them to the club and escort them in via the back door. Xavier would meet them there and sort them out. I’d wait around in the kitchen usually, act as an unofficial doorman until all the members had left, and then take a nap in the drawing room until morning before taking the kids back to the drop-off zone. Xavier was worried they might try and steal from the members, so I was his insurance, if you like. With me acting as their minder, they weren’t likely to take advantage of their clients, were they?’

  Emma listened intently, her body rigid as she hung on to his every word.

  ‘On Wednesday the second of January 2021, I picked up two girls and a boy and drove them to the Maddox Club. The girls were from Bulgaria and giggled the entire journey. The boy, on the other hand, was shy and looked so nervous I asked him if he was sure he wanted to go into the club. He gave me a look – can’t describe it other than it was like a puppy who’d been kicked. “I have to,” he said. “It’s for my family.” I didn’t know what to say. Poor kid. He was a good-looking lad, African origin with hazel eyes. I’m still haunted by the look in them and I ask myself over and over again why I didn’t just turn the car around and tell him to forget it?’ Cooper balled his hands into fists and took a deep breath.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Morgan.

  Cooper nodded. ‘Yeah. Give me a second.’

  He drew another breath then continued. ‘It was about four in the morning when I was woken up. I’d dozed off in the drawing room. Xavier was stood over me, looking like shit. He needed my help. Something had gone seriously wrong upstairs and the lad had accidentally died – of an overdose or something. Xavier refused to report it to the police – the lad was an illegal immigrant and they didn’t know anything about him or his family, and more importantly, they had to protect the member who’d been involved. I didn’t want anything to do with it to start with, but Xavier said I was already involved, and if he went down, so would I; I was the one who collected the kids and I’d be implicated if it came out. I had to think of my daughter. She was all I had. I couldn’t face charges or go to prison. Xavier offered me £20,000 to stay quiet. The member involved, Ian Wentworth, would pay me if I disposed of the body.

  ‘God help me, I took the fucking money. Such a huge amount meant a lot to me. I was struggling to make ends meet after my bitch of a wife left me, and I could do so much with 20K. The kid was already dead. I didn’t kill him. No one knew he was at the Maddox Club other than me, Xavier, Wentworth – and the Bulgarian girls, of course, but they wouldn’t have any idea where he was, and would assume he’d gone home at a different time. I went upstairs with Xavier to Wentworth’s room. The young man was naked on the bed, hog-tied, with a plastic bag over his head. He’d suffocated during some sexual game. It was fucking sick, I can tell you. His body was so bruised I could hardly look at it. Xavier and me untied him, wrapped him up inside the bedspread on the floor and carried him to my car. Xavier asked me to dispose of the kid’s body. He couldn’t face it. I headed home, picked up a shovel, then drove back to the club. I figured the lad wouldn’t be discovered in the woods behind the place.’

  ‘Could you show us where?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the other club members? Did they know about this?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone else knew. It was pitch dark outside. The only other two members who were staying overnight were occupied with the Bulgarian girls.’

  ‘And you felt bad about this afterwards?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t you? I’ve seen all sorts of crap in my life, but the sight of that young boy sickened me more than anything I’ve come across. I mean it really burrowed into me. I couldn’t sleep for days afterwards. Couldn’t focus. I needed a few shots of whisky each night to get to sleep, and then two shots became several, and I’d race for the whisky bottle as soon as I got in from work.’

  ‘And you told Bradley about this?’

  ‘Like fuck I did! No way.’

  Morgan’s brow furrowed.

  Cooper held up a hand. ‘There’s more. Hear me out. About a week later, Ian Wentworth phoned me to ask a favour. He wanted me to shut a journalist up. He reckoned, with my background, I’d be able to put the frighteners on the man, rough him up a bit and get him off his back. The guy was asking questions about the Gold Service. Heaven knows how he found out about it, but he’d talked to Wentworth and was beginning to ask probing questions. Wentworth was shit scared he’d find out about the lad. I told him I wasn’t a hired thug. I don’t beat up innocent people and I wasn’t going to help him. I’d already done more than enough. Told him to find somebody else. I didn’t think he would or could, but he did. He tracked down some loose cannon – a complete and utter fucking nut-job – from some dark website. Paid him in advance in Bitcoins. Wentworth rang me soon after he’d hired the bloke. He’d changed his mind and tried to call it off, but the guy told him to fuck off and was going ahead regardless. He wanted me to stop the motherfucker, but I told him to go to hell. I should have stepped in. I might have prevented what happened.

  ‘The bastard turned it into a complete bloodbath. He didn’t put the frighteners on or beat up the reporter – he murdered him, and not only him, but an entire train carriage of innocent people.’

  Cooper sat in the back of Morgan’s car, eyes closed.

  ‘Who’s going to speak to her?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Fuck me, I don’t know. Speak to William and let him tell her.’

  ‘She’ll go mental.’

  ‘Which might be a good thing. She’s been acting weirdly anyway. Maybe, this way, it’ll shake her up or help give her closure, or whatever the shrinks say will help.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll ring William. This is . . . fucking awful.’

  Morgan couldn’t disagree with her.

  Emma fumbled in her pocket, pulled out a coin and prepared to flick it in the air. ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake. I’ll speak to William, okay?’ Morgan said.

  ‘Good. I hoped you would. I’ll drive Cooper back and get an official statement from him at the station. You can tell me what William says.’

  ‘What if Kate gets wind Cooper’s there?’

  ‘Then you’d better hope William will have told her what happened to Chris before that happens, and come up with a plan, because I’ve no idea how she’ll react.’

  ‘Take your time going back to the station, then. I’ll ring William en route.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll go the scenic route. And, Morgan—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  TUESDAY, 8 JUNE – LATE EVENING

  Kate checked her messages and found one from Mike Blythe, the cleaner who’d found Xavier’s body. He’d provided the address and phone number for Poppy Notts, who worked for ABeClean and regularly cleaned the Maddox Club.

  She rang him back immediately. ‘Hi, Mike. It’s DI Young. How are you?’

  ‘Still pretty shaken up. Did you get my message?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. It’s the reason for my call. I wondered if I could have a word with Tabitha?’

  ‘She’s asleep. The virus has totally wiped her out. Can it wait until the morning?’

  ‘Okay. I’m going to arrange for somebody to drop by and take a DNA sample from her. It’s just a simple swab test. Will you tell her?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She was back on track. She rang Poppy, got the answerphone and left a message. Hopefully, she’d speak to both women in the morning and then they’d be able to find out if the blood on the carpet and ornament belonged to either of them. It was getting late and she hadn’t taken a proper break all day. Her head was thumping badly – her body rebelling against the lack of medication and food. She needed to stop off home, grab a bite to eat, take some headache pills before pushing on.

  She pulled on to her
drive and hopped out of the car. The voice took her by surprise. It was the journalist who’d been plaguing her. She hadn’t noticed his dark-coloured Volvo parked in the street. She hadn’t the energy to scream at him for being outside her home.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Just piss off and leave me alone, will you?’

  Dan leapt forward, put a hand on her arm. ‘Kate, please. Chris was a good mate.’

  ‘Was? Did you fall out?’

  He paused, mouth agape, then shook himself slightly and continued, voice now gentle. ‘Of course we didn’t fall out. We were mates. Kate, is everything okay? You seem . . . confused.’

  Kate rubbed her forehead, but didn’t reply.

  ‘Okay. Listen. I have something extremely important for you. Chris shared some of his information with me – his suspicions regarding Ian Wentworth. He was on to something big and I owe it to him to follow it up through the proper channels. This is more than a scoop.’

  She halted in her tracks. Why hadn’t Chris shared this with her? ‘What do you know about Ian Wentworth?’

  ‘Chris and I were investigating a paedophile ring. Chris was sure Ian was involved in it, but you know what he was like – always played his cards close to his chest, and after . . . well . . . after what happened to him on the train, I had to let it drop through lack of information. He’d uncovered the bulk of it and I didn’t have access to it. Besides, I had other assignments to handle. Anyway, I inherited Chris’s desk, and a couple of weeks ago I had trouble with the bottom drawer, which wouldn’t open. Maintenance fixed it last week and discovered this notebook taped to the underside. I was going to look into it myself, then a couple of days after I got my hands on it, Ian Wentworth was murdered. I owe it to Chris to pass this to you.’

  She stared at the small black journal in his hand. Chris should have given it to her, or at least told her about it. She took it from Dan, opened it and recognised her husband’s neat handwriting.

  She began to speak, but Dan beat her to it. ‘If you want to chat further about what we uncovered, I’ll be happy to talk. I want to honour Chris’s memory. He was a terrific guy – the best journalist I’ve ever met.’ He withdrew to his car and opened the door.

  She managed a soft ‘Thank you’ before he disappeared into its interior and started it up.

  She didn’t dally. This could well contain the clues Chris had wanted her to find when he warned her about her fellow colleagues, especially John Dickson. The small black book burned in her hand as she slammed the door shut and hurried into the sitting room, where she dropped on to the settee.

  ‘Chris, I’ve got your journal.’

  Silence.

  ‘You hid it. Too bloody well. It’s a good thing the drawer stuck or we’d never have found it. Why the hell didn’t you leave it at home?’

  ‘Because you never go into my den, Kate. You’re too scared to face up to the truth of what happened. You’ve been blocking it out, relying on pills to befuddle your brain and keep you living in a bubble.’

  The trembling began almost immediately. Something shifted inside her head, like somebody was raising a curtain. She wanted to tug it back down and retreat behind it once more, her pain obliterated by pills. Reality was coming into sharper focus, bringing the clarity she’d been avoiding for months. The urge to speak to Chris was overwhelming. She fumbled for her phone, thumbed her messages and pulled up the one she’d read by the fish van only a couple of days ago:

  Sorry Babe

  Shit signal here.

  Speak soon.

  Love you.

  X

  Her heart scorched a hole in her chest as she registered the date the message had actually been sent – 16 January – the day Chris had been killed.

  The rush of memories emptied her lungs of breath and she rested her head in her hands. They paraded in front of her, leaving her powerless to ignore them . . .

  She’s on her way home when the ‘all units respond’ call comes in, and given she’s only two minutes from the railway station, she responds.

  She dropped her head into her arms. Stop, she begs, but they don’t . . .

  The entire station has been cordoned off and officers have secured the area. Passengers have disembarked and been taken to a facility to be interviewed. The train is by platform 1, and glassy-eyed station staff stand in front of the coffee house there as she and other officers mount the steps on to the train and into the first-class carriage.

  The smell is of death. Seats are stained crimson and the windows are splattered with blood like red paintballs. An elderly man is blocking the aisle and she must step over his lifeless body to continue, her eyes grazing the businessman slumped in the seat nearby, a hole in his forehead and jaw open. Two seats further on, a blonde-haired woman is face down on the table, her friend hunched in the corner of her seat. Ahead, on the floor, lies the body of the gunman, his weapon on the floor beside him. A body is spread-eagled on top of his legs, but Kate can’t tear her eyes away from the auburn-haired woman who’d died trying to protect the child under her seat. Kate’s heart shatters at the sight of the child’s stockinged legs and the toy bear by her side. She barely hears the officers next to her talking in low voices.

  ‘One of the passengers prevented the bastard from killing anyone else. He’d been shot but somehow still managed to attack him. He used this to hit him.’

  She glances up. The words won’t come. Her lips are anaesthetised, her throat constricted.

  The object is stained brown but is still in one piece. The heavy crystal award has a name engraved on it. She reads the inscription and her breath catches in her throat. She gasps for air, her eyes widening.

  Journalist of the Year

  Chris Young

  Why was Chris on this train? She was expecting him home much later, after the drinks party to celebrate this award. She stares at the crumpled body of her brave husband, who’d tried to save his fellow passengers, and her knees buckle. William is by her side in a flash.

  ‘Kate, come on. Come away. Can I have some help here, please?’

  Her husband had died a hero, but the case, assigned first to the terrorism squad and then another crime unit, had not been resolved. Why the man had run amok was a mystery. She recalled the article in the local newspaper at the time. She knew every word off by heart . . .

  Courageous Journalist Saves Passengers During Gun Siege

  An attack on a busy train has left fellow commuters reeling. Passengers on the 4.30 p.m. train from Euston to Manchester Piccadilly two days ago, on Wednesday 16 January, suffered a horrendous ordeal when a lone gunman rampaged through the first-class carriage and killed its occupants.

  Had it not been for the bravery of journalist Chris Young at the time, many more would certainly have been killed.

  Quick-thinking Chris Young (38) from Stoke-on-Trent, who scooped the Journalist of the Year Award at a ceremony earlier in the day, had been returning from the event when the gunman, who has been named as Edward Blancher (51) opened fire in his carriage.

  Shot in the chest by Blancher, Chris still managed to pursue the assailant and bring him down single-handedly, and in so doing, saved the lives of many others on the train.

  The alarm was raised when the train stopped at Stoke-on-Trent station. DI Kate Young (34), wife to Chris, was one of the first officers to attend the scene of the crime, but was unavailable for comment.

  Kate’s senior officer, DCI William Chase, praised Chris for his bravery and quick thinking. ‘Had it not been for his speedy actions, this would undoubtedly have escalated into an even more tragic event and a huge loss of life. We are of course all deeply saddened by the loss of Chris and our thoughts are with Kate at this time.’

  Police have assured citizens this was a one-off attack. They do, however, urge all commuters to remain vigilant while travelling and report anything suspicious to either the train guard, or to the police.

  A sob, like a seismic earthquake, began in the centre of her soul, shaking and vibra
ting as it travelled through her body. It rose steadily, passing through her chest and heart into her throat, and she threw back her head and wailed like a wounded animal until she was bereft of any energy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  WEDNESDAY, 9 JUNE – EARLY MORNING

  Awakening with a start, and still in her clothes from the day before, Kate picked up her mobile from the coffee table to establish the time and saw she had several missed calls.

  ‘Chris?’ she whispered, even though she knew he wouldn’t and couldn’t answer her.

  Silence enveloped her and she bit back tears. Self-pity was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She listened to the messages: the first was from Emma to say they were holding Cooper in custody overnight. There were two further messages from her, and then another four from William Chase, wanting to know where Kate was and why she wasn’t answering her phone.

  The last was from Ervin: ‘Hi, Kate. This is a mini update. I’ve just examined a second white fibre Harvey found in Xavier’s nasal cavity and which I assumed would be the same as the one found under his fingernail. According to Faith’s report, the first thread came from toilet paper, but this one doesn’t, so I’m going to run further tests to establish where it has come from. That’s all for the moment. Cheerio.’

  Kate messaged Emma to say she was on her way to the station. William would have to wait. She had no idea what she’d tell him yet, but it certainly wouldn’t be the truth. She didn’t know whom she could trust to tell, and until she got the opportunity to read Chris’s journal in private, she’d keep the meeting with Dan, the reporter, to herself. The book was in her handbag and she hunted for a safe place to leave it, settling on the empty box of cereal with the smiley face.