Don't Trust Him

by Lisa Cutts

  He sat with the CCTV disk in his hand, the one he had picked up at the jeweller’s earlier that day. He didn’t yet know what it was for, but there was no way he would have refused to collect it, and he didn’t want anyone else to pick it up either.

  The manager had been quite insistent that he didn’t know why Pierre had wanted the footage, but as they’d known each other for years he hadn’t even asked.

  Harry turned the disk over in his hand and checked the date on the plastic cover. ‘WED 29TH NOV’ was scribbled on it in black marker pen.

  Then the significance of the date hit Harry full on.

  He stared at the disk, disbelief at what he was holding in his hand.

  Harry quickly powered up the computer in front of him and opened Pierre’s drawer in search of his daybook. Any work Pierre had done for a murder, rape or other Major Crime investigation, same as the other DCs, he would have made notes in his investigator’s notebook.

  At the time of Pierre’s death, anything to do with the attempted murder he was working on was seized pending an investigation. His day-to-day belongings, however, were still in his desk, which Harry was currently rifling through.

  Holding his breath, Harry took out the notebook and leafed through the pages, flicking between Pierre’s last entry a couple of weeks before his death, and Wednesday the 29th of November.

  He held a shaky hand over the page, running his finger along the lines as he read them.

  The first entry was a reminder to pick up his expenses, and the second was just a phone message he took for another member of the team. The rest of the day was blank.

  Absent-mindedly scratching at his stubble, it dawned on Harry that Pierre obviously wouldn’t have asked for the CCTV to be put aside on the same day as the recording was taken.

  He sat at Pierre’s desk flicking through the entire book, digesting all the work Pierre had covered, messages he had taken and notes to himself, with small, satisfying ticks next to each task when completed.

  Then Harry found an entry for 13 December, which read:

  Phone Barry at B’s to put aside CCTV.

  A neat little tick meant that Pierre had made the call, but Harry obviously knew that he never got round to picking up the footage.

  The sound of two officers returning noisily to the incident room distracted Harry from thinking too hard about Pierre’s unfinished task.

  He looked up and smiled at Sophia and Dane.

  ‘You okay, you two?’ he said, attention back on the screen.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sophia as she dumped her paperwork and overnight bag on her desk. ‘We got loads of statements and they’ve warned us how much work there might be coming up.’

  This time Harry peered intently at her over the screen.

  ‘You all right with that? You’re both off late tonight.’

  ‘To be honest, boss, I could do with the overtime, and besides, the Fraud DS told us we can get in a little later tomorrow if we like.’

  Harry scrutinized his newest addition’s face. It gave nothing away.

  ‘Yeah, be good experience,’ said Dane. ‘I’m looking forward to finding out more about it in the morning.’

  ‘So, is it all a bit need-to-know?’ asked Harry, keeping an eye on the screen in front of him as he spoke.

  ‘No idea who, where or what we’re looking for until the briefing tomorrow,’ said Sophia as she walked over to stand behind Harry. ‘It’s very much being kept under wraps at the—’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Harry.

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ said Sophia as she leaned in to get a better look at the screen.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ said Sophia, finger pointing at a grainy figure on the CCTV footage.

  ‘You bet it is,’ said Harry, feeling that at last, something was going right in the Jenny Bloomfield murder investigation.

  Chapter 32

  Sheila Flanagan never had trouble in her pub, so locking the doors of The Boundary at 11.15 p.m. was never an issue. Long gone were the days of lock-ins. They weren’t worth the bother, she didn’t need to siphon money off the brewery, and she really didn’t want to attract any more attention to her pub.

  It had been another slow night, but that was of no issue to her. The money was coming in thick and fast from other avenues. Sean Turner trusted her implicitly, and the locals knew that the boozer was under protection from people you simply didn’t mess with.

  She was as safe as houses.

  She helped herself to a double gin from the optics, filled her glass with ice and grabbed a bottle of bitter lemon from the shelf. As she flipped the cap off with the bottle opener fixed to the wall, a sound outside distracted her.

  Sheila paused, glass in one hand, bottle in the other.

  Realizing it was only the sound of a van pulling up outside, she poured some of her mixer in the glass and reached for her cigarettes.

  She’d risk the smoking ban: she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had paid a visit to check on her licensing hours or make sure she wasn’t dealing cocaine from the toilets.

  Sheila shook her head, massive gold hoop earrings jangling as she marvelled at what a forgotten part of the world she lived in.

  Another noise outside.

  For a second, her mind flitted to the contents of her upstairs kitchen: bundles of cash, gold and platinum jewellery, stolen and fraudulently obtained credit cards.

  Just who would be stupid enough to try to rip off Sean Turner?

  To be on the safe side, she went to the window; the old panes with the lower half frosted meant she had to climb onto the padded bench against the wall to see outside.

  As her dyed blonde head, dark roots and all, appeared over the frosted glass, the only word she had time to say before the sound of splitting wood as the doors crashed open was ‘Fuck’.

  ‘POLICE!’ hollered a voice. ‘Stay where you are!’

  More people raced through the doors than the pub had seen in decades, covering every corner, entrance and exit. Each and every one kitted out head to toe in black, several carrying batons and one restraining a very angry German Shepherd.

  Sheila stayed where she was, balancing on the bench, gin in one hand, lit cigarette in the other.

  ‘Bit fucking over the top, ain’t it, gents? Riot police for smoking on licensed premises.’

  ‘We’ve got a warrant to search the pub for—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, love,’ she said before downing her drink in one. ‘No sense of fucking humour, some people.’

  Chapter 33

  Early hours Friday 8 May

  The basement of the club was the sort of place that no one ever needed to or, in fact, was allowed to sign in to. There was no name above the door, and if you found yourself in there without an invitation, it was frequently for the wrong reasons.

  The entrance was in an alleyway off the main part of town and through a junk shop. A junk shop that didn’t sell much in the way of junk. It opened sporadically, mainly to rid itself of too much unwanted attention from other local businesses, and was fronted by a woman in her seventies who gave the impression of being both deaf and batty.

  Perfect for the likes of Dane and Sean to meet up in.

  As Dane was about to descend the stairs into the club, he paused, sent a quick text to Sophia to tell her he’d see her later, and then made his way down to the bar. The wooden counter took up the length of one of the walls. He leaned against it, nodded to a woman who looked even older than the woman in the junk shop, and pointed to a fridge full of bottled beers.

  ‘A Peroni, please, Doreen, and have one yourself.’ He threw a twenty-pound note on the bar, looked across the six or seven tables to where Sean was sitting, and pointed at his own drink.

  Sean shook his head and held up a glass of brandy.

  Without waiting for change, mostly because he knew he wouldn’t get any, Dane crossed the twenty feet or so of smoke-filled floor to get to his employer.

  Giving him a wary e
ye, Sean reached into his pocket and pulled out a large brown envelope.

  ‘Yeah, I know it’s a cliché,’ he said, ‘giving a copper a large brown envelope, but I ran out of thank-you cards.’

  Dane put out a hand and, naturally, opened it to check the contents.

  ‘Take it out and count it,’ said Sean. ‘You know you’re in safe company. All the while you’re sitting in here, you won’t get mugged for three grand. It’s outside you’ve got to worry about.’

  They studied each other across the heavy wooden table.

  ‘You look surprised,’ said Sean.

  ‘That wasn’t what we agreed. We said five grand.’

  The chatter from the handful of other members of the criminal fraternity had returned to a gentle hum, leaving them to talk without being overheard, not that it would have mattered much.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Sean as he picked up his glass and held it to his nose, delighting in the aroma. ‘You gave me one piece of info about a fucked CCTV camera and carried out an address check for someone who owed me drugs money. After tonight’s turn of events, you’re lucky to have got sod all.’

  The look of surprise on Dane’s face was genuine. He leaned closer to Sean.

  At last, after holding his drink up to the bare light bulb, swirling it in his glass and pushing his nose so far inside that Dane thought he was going to ingest it via his nostrils, Sean finally took a sip.

  ‘That’s really very good brandy,’ he said.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Dane, sensing a change in tone from Turner and expecting the fall-out to head his way.

  ‘A lovely little boozer that houses my business got knocked off barely two hours ago.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Dane, picking up his beer to take a swig. ‘Rival gang?’

  This earned a stare from his employer.

  ‘You could say that, Dane. Only it was your gang, so what the fuck are you going to do to make this right?’ Dane slammed his beer bottle down on the table, prompting an immediate reaction from Doreen, who yelled, ‘Fucking keep it down or you’re out on your arse.’

  In response, and suitably chastised, Dane waggled his fingers at her by way of an apology. He knew better than to kick off in here. Some of the hardest villains in the south-east were drinking mere feet away from Dane. And most of them knew what he did for a living, or at least, the wage he declared to the taxman.

  ‘How would I make this right?’ Dane said. ‘Like I’ve got an in when it comes to everything that’s going on in this county. Where is this pub, for a start?’

  ‘South-east London.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Dane a little too loudly. Then, with a little less volume, he continued, ‘You are aware that there’s more than one police force in the country? You’re talking about the Met Police. I don’t work for them, remember? How was I supposed to know that was going to happen?’

  Sean leaned back in his chair.

  ‘The pub might have been in Metropolitan Police land, but the filth who raided it were your lot. So, you know what that means?’

  ‘I’m to blame?’ said Dane, angrier than he should have been. Fear would have been a better emotion.

  ‘They’ve got my money. Your mates. They’ve taken my money, equipment and everything I’ve worked hard for. And you’re going to get it back.’

  ‘Me?’ said Dane, no attempt to keep his voice down. ‘How exactly am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘That’s not really my problem. What I do know is that they’ll have to store it somewhere, and somewhere safe. Your headquarters? I don’t know and I don’t fucking care. Now, I suggest you drink your beer, fuck off home, and find out where my money is and how you’re going to get it back for me. I’ll be in touch.’

  Not for the first time, Dane was being dismissed. It wasn’t something he was fond of, especially not from Sean Turner of all people.

  The nasty bastard.

  As Dane pocketed the money and downed his beer, he made for the exit, considering the long day of work ahead of him.

  He hadn’t been told about the warrant on the pub for a reason. He didn’t think his colleagues were on to him or he’d have found himself in a cell. Someone was clearly suspicious of information being leaked, or it wouldn’t have been so closely guarded.

  All he had to do now was find out where the money and goods were stored and steal them back from the police.

  Couldn’t be simpler.

  Chapter 34

  Sophia’s night’s sleep had been a very broken one. She was exhausted by the time she got to bed, but felt unable to get to sleep, having too much on her mind.

  She had her reservations about Dane. Even though she had slept with him, he didn’t seem that keen on her, and the mysterious text message made her wonder about him all the more.

  Reaching over to the bedside cabinet, she took hold of her phone and saw with a sigh that it was only 4.30 a.m.

  Two new messages were waiting for her.

  The first was from Dane. Thanks for today. Look forward to another long day with you.

  In all honestly, she wasn’t sure how she felt about him texting her in the early hours. She had been a bit more open with him today and had spoken more freely than she had in a long time. At the thought of him her heart gave a lurch, the kind of leap she’d felt before, often just before it all went wrong, when he turned out to be married, or about to fleece her for £15,000.

  She clutched the edge of the duvet up under her chin, for comfort more than warmth on such a mild May night, and it mopped up her tears.

  One thing she really hated was crying. It made her feel weak and pathetic, especially when it was brought on by a bloody man. This wasn’t the person she had become over the years – a woman who stood on her own two feet, who didn’t need a man to pay her way. No, instead, she had paid for him. All those thousands of pounds she would never see again, no matter what she did.

  Dabbing at her eyes with the edge of the quilt cover, she got a grip of herself and accepted she was allowing her emotions to overcome her. Another thing she really hated.

  Her hand sought out her mobile phone on the top of the quilt and she read the second message.

  It’s in your interests that you contact me. There’s a lot more to Dane than meets the eye. Hannah.

  For a couple of seconds, Sophia stared at the screen. She thought about blocking her, she thought about reporting her and she thought about telling Harry. But reporting her for what? And what exactly would she tell Harry?

  Being pragmatic, being a detective, and now being bloody angry, she got out of bed, went to her spare room and sat at her computer.

  The desk was strewn with paperwork and was much more disordered that its counterpart in the incident room. She sorted through the chaos until she found the endowment policies – that were her one and only lifeline.

  All she had to do was to keep her head above water for the few months and things would drastically improve. The policy was buried beneath bank statements riddled with overdraft charges and credit-card bills with ever-increasing balances. It was enough to pay off everything, and with any luck give her a few extra pounds towards replacing her broken washing machine. She had been taking her laundry to her mum’s house for the past five months, and she had never once complained, but enough was enough.

  Clutching the policy like a security blanket, she waited until the panic had subsided and focused next on the real reason she had got out of bed.

  She knew it wasn’t a good idea to search online about someone she was almost sort of dating, but she couldn’t stop thinking about all the little things that didn’t add up, and the text messages from the mysterious Hannah. Determined to find answers, she opened up the browser and ran a search on Dane Hoopman.

  It hadn’t really occurred to her to do it before – the man was a policeman. Surely there shouldn’t be much, if anything, about him online.

  At first, her search took her nowhere, except down many blind alleys. None of the Danes were th
e man she worked with and, though she hated to admit it, had far too willingly shared a bed with.

  Around five in the morning her patience paid off. But it didn’t make her feel any better.

  Sophia’s hand hovered over the button, unsure what she should do. She knew there was no chance of anyone discovering who she was online; a very useful cyber-crime training course at the Police College had taken care of covering her digital footprint. It simply felt dishonest.

  The photograph was on someone else’s profile page, and had taken a lot of searching, some of it by making leaps of faith that she was on the right tracks.

  She took a deep breath and clicked on the link.

  It led her to another page, taking another couple of seconds until she tracked down the originator of the photo. It seemed to be an old photograph at some sort of charity dinner. The women were all in long evening dresses and the men in dinner suits. Dane’s face shone out at her even though he wasn’t the centre of attention.

  What caught her eye was the couple behind Dane: an elegant woman and a good-looking man. Two people who were very much ghosts from the past.

  If she wasn’t very much mistaken, she was looking at Linda Bowman, the woman who had been murdered in her own kitchen, who Aiden Bloomfield had been convicted of killing, and Linda’s husband, former Detective Inspector Milton Bowman.

  For reasons she couldn’t totally fathom, Sophia’s blood ran cold. Dane couldn’t have had anything to do with Linda’s murder, and Milton had died in a car accident. And yet . . .

  Sophia had been very aware of the rumours that had once circulated in their incident room, suspecting that everything Milton had done wasn’t always above board. There was speculation that he was involved in the criminal underworld.

  The problem was, Sophia didn’t know what to do with what she’d found. Being at the same charity event didn’t mean Dane actually knew them.