“I’ll take this pathetic piece of shit back to the others,” Idris said.
Quinn closed the door, leaving him alone with Bex in the narrow space in front of the stairs.
“Bloody hell, what were you thinking, storming in here with a weapon? He wasn’t even armed!”
Bex took a deep breath, adrenaline leaving her muscles shaking. She wanted to take a step back, but her calves were already pressed against the treads of the staircase. In the confined space, the odor of rising damp was more pungent. She nursed her wrist. It felt like Quinn had bruised the bone.
“I stormed in here to save your sorry ass. I didn’t know if the perp was carrying. He raised his arm so I thought you were in danger.”
“No, your actions put me in danger! When police bring guns into the equation it’s inevitable that someone’s going to get hurt. I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but try de-escalating a situation instead of ramping up the aggression. You Yanks tend to shoot first, talk later, but that brute force gets civilians killed. We don’t police that way here.” He punctuated the last sentence with several stabs of his finger in the air.
“Agreed, cops in New York get shot at so I’ve learned to be prepared.” Bex’s voice was colder than the weather outside. As much as she hated to admit it, Quinn had hit the nail on the head. Her years of training on the NYPD had taken over as soon as she’d suspected the perp was armed. A few weeks of British training, a few months of practical policing in London, hadn’t removed her drive to react with force against potential force.
“That’s the trouble,” Quinn barged in. “Cops here aren’t afraid of being shot, we’re afraid to get it wrong and be criticized for using undue force. I think it would be better for everyone on the team if you kept your instincts in check.” Quinn stared her down. His eyes, the intense blue of a Greek sky, did not twitch or blink.
“You’re forgetting yourself, DI Standing,” Bex snapped. What Quinn was really saying was that the Youth Crimes Team would be better off without her. Quinn had never disguised his contempt for the exchange program that enabled Bex to cross the Atlantic to join the Met. It was an attitude he brought to work every day. Today’s effort was more strident than usual and it clearly ended the small amount of good will racked up from their last major case when she had rescued his wife, Isla, from almost certain death.
“I beg to differ, DCI Wynter.” His blue eyes darkened to black as they locked on Bex. She felt a prickle of apprehension at his vehemence. “We could’ve had a fatal police shooting on our hands, and that’s something the London Met hasn’t had in years. Well done!”
Bex flushed at his biting sarcasm. “You’re on notice, Standing.” The words tasted sour in her mouth. This was not how she wanted to lead her team, but Quinn had backed her into a corner. “You are way out of line. I’m your superior officer and, whether you like me or not, you owe my position respect.”
“I’ll respect someone who earns it. Put me on notice all you want, it doesn’t change the situation. You should never have joined the Met.”
He brushed past her and slammed the door, leaving her alone in the dim recess.
Chapter 5
December 1 Friday
Detective Superintendent Sophie Dresden fixed Bex with a dispassionate stare over the top of her reading glasses. “You’re sure you want to make a formal complaint about Detective Inspector Quinn Standing? That will be noted on his personnel file and it will also mean drawing up a Management Action Plan with a list of check boxes to tick off before the issue will be considered rectified.”
Dresden’s salon-styled hair and butterscotch eyes wouldn’t have looked out of place amongst a whist table of grandmothers. Someone more discerning might notice the sharp nose and furrowed brow to peg her as a Girl Guide leader. Bex had learnt over the past few months that her superior’s mild appearance was deceptive. Dresden ruled the Youth Crimes Team with an implacable hand, and Bex suspected it was her stepping stone for a more ambitious agenda. Police Commissioner Sophie Dresden perhaps?
“Before you answer, I should inform you that DI Standing wants to issue his own complaint in the matter of an unwarranted use of firearms by you in this morning’s arrest.”
Bex’s eyes wandered around the stark office. Situated on the third floor of New Scotland Yard it was little more than a glassed in box holding a desk, computer and a bookcase filled with heavy legal tomes behind Dresden’s stiff back. There was not a personal photo or item anywhere on the wood-grained desk or neutral-toned walls.
Finally, she ended the awkward silence between them with a cautious, “I see.”
“I hope you do, Wynter, because to me it’s beginning to look a lot like a kids’ squabble. Tit for tat may be very well on the school grounds or even in the political arena, but here at the London Met, the top brass look on that kind of behavior as very poor form.
“Now, I fully understand that DI Standing is not a team player. I’m willing to bet the majority of his supervisors would concur on that. I also suspect that some of his actions verge on maverick behavior, so you do have your work cut out for you. That being said, Standing was placed in this team by direct order from Chief Superintendent Titus. My goal is to prove to Titus that we can achieve what other sections have failed to do: turn Standing into a productive team member.”
Dresden removed her glasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb. Her fingers were long and delicate and her fingernails were French manicured. When she dropped her hand, the eyes that met Bex’s were hard and challenging.
“Wynter, when your NYPD Captain recommended you for this position he said failure was never an option for you. Putting Standing on notice will be as much a blot on your leadership as his policing.”
Bex paused. Dresden had stated her goal: to rehabilitate Quinn into a perfect police specimen in order to impress Titus. The implication being that, as Quinn’s superior officer, Bex was responsible for Quinn’s behavior. Dresden had reminded her that she was a fighter, not a quitter.
“Since no firearms were discharged, I can write Standing’s complaint off. Why don’t you sleep on your decision, Wynter?” Dresden offered Bex a half-smile of encouragement.
Bex’s forehead wrinkled as she processed Dresden’s thinly veiled demand for acquiescence. Dresden wasn’t the only one in the office with an agenda. If she was going to scratch Dresden’s back by retracting her complaint on Quinn, maybe she could induce Dresden to play nicely with her own pet project.
For the past four months Dresden had fielded a continual stream of cases targeting youth gangs around the greater London area to the Youth Crimes Team. They were awash in drug heists, illegal weapons hauls and burglaries and had charged and carted off dozens of young offenders. Most of whom would be returned to the streets after short stints in Her Majesty’s young offender institutions to recommence the crime cycle. Bex’s idea was to challenge this punitive versus rehabilitative view of juvenile crime and she had mentioned it to Dresden.
“Yes I will sleep on it, Ma’am. I did wonder if you’d had a chance to reconsider the idea I put forward last week of a youth drop-in center targeting at risk teens.”
Dresden’s smile disappeared, replaced with a flat, steely look that intimated her time was short and her attention was needed on more important matters.
“Remind me again, what it is you propose as an alternative to incarceration, Wynter?”
“My idea is we’d do better by winning these kids’ confidence in us instead of being heavy handed and hauling them off to jail. Evidence shows us that incarcerating kids is futile. Once the shock value’s worn off all they do is learn more bad habits from other inmates, then simply end up back on the streets in gangs.
“I’ve had experience in New York with a club for troubled teens. For the boys, especially, learning to fight properly gave them a safe outlet for aggression that’s accumulated from years of neglect and abuse. If we can divert that energy into more positive channels we might have
a chance to turn their lives around before they become habitual criminals–”
Dresden held up a hand, making Bex pause in mid-flow. Bex knew Dresden would have her counter arguments lined up like ducks in a row, as her landlady Georgie Richards would say. She felt fully armed to shoot Dresden’s ducks down in flames.
When Dresden’s face assumed a thoughtful look, Bex forced herself to remain silent. Dresden’s eyebrow quirked skeptically in her direction.
“What you’re saying essentially is that you’d gather these kids in one spot like a holding pen so you can whip them into shape to fit nicely back into society?”
Bex opened her mouth to object to Dresden’s phrasing, but the older woman cut her off.
“You’ll need to provide a written proposal explaining how you’d cover the costs of a premises, equipment, any volunteers, et cetera. There’s no money from the Met for this type of activity. You’re going to have to put in the time and effort to get it off the ground. If you get a pitch for this scheme of yours back to me before the end of the month I’ll see what I can do about greasing some wheels for you.”
Gaping in surprise, Bex tried to gather her scattered thoughts at Dresden’s unexpected capitulation.
“Well? Was there anything else?”
“No, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am. I will get a proposal to you ASAP.” Bex stood up.
“Good, I’ll see you tomorrow night at the charity fundraiser. Oh, and you’d better bring a partner. It always looks better at these sort of events.”
Bex’s eyes glazed in alarm. The Mary Miriam Trust was holding a charity event to raise funds for homeless youth this Christmas and Bex, as head of the Youth Crimes Team, had been directed to attend as part of the token police presence. She knew she was expected to toe a party line, emphasizing the importance London Metropolitan Police put on helping youth, but Dresden had failed to mention the need for a partner.
“A partner? What’s wrong with a single woman attending a function on her own?”
Dresden’s carefully groomed eyebrows rose at Bex’s agitation. “A major social event is like Noah’s ark. It works better with couples. You don’t have to bring a romantic partner, Wynter. Ask one of the team if you’re short on candidates. Just make sure they own a tux. It’s black tie after all.”
* * *
On the short walk between New Scotland Yard and the Bridesmead Criminal Investigation Department where the Youth Crimes Team had their new office space, Bex’s stomach tied itself in knots. Dresden’s words replayed in her head: You don’t have to bring a romantic partner. Ask one of the team if you’re short on candidates.
Bex had worked hard over the past four months keeping friendly overtures from her team at bay. During the training phase of her recruitment she had refused all social invitations from her fellow expatriate recruits until they eventually dried up. Dividing her days between work and the gym, she always managed to excuse herself when her team headed out to the Sail and Ale, the local pub on the corner opposite Bridesmead CID.
Dresden had read her situation correctly: her list of candidates to accompany her tomorrow night was slim. Could she make Dresden believe all the members had plans for the night? Somehow, she didn’t think Dresden would accept any excuses. So, what were her options?
She felt most comfortable asking either Eli and Reuben, whose mother, Georgie, was her landlady. The problem was she knew Eli was headed north to Liverpool to spend the weekend with his daughters. Recalling Reuben’s work attire of skinny-legged jeans and collarless, plain leather biker jacket with its chunky zips and metal rivets, she doubted his idea of a tux would meet Dresden’s standards. That left Idris and Quinn as candidates.
Since she’d rather ask a homeless man off the street to accompany her than approach Quinn, she realized that Idris had drawn the short straw. She consoled herself with the thought that his immaculate dress sense meant he likely not only owned a tuxedo but would be pleased to wear it. Whether he would be pleased about wearing it while out with her was anyone’s guess.
Chapter 6
Saturday 2 December
As Isla shifted in her seat to avoid the drooping slump of a drunken offender awaiting a lift home, she cursed herself for being too conscientious. Harley Carroll had confessed to his crimes so it wasn’t her job to pursue his case with the Barnet CID. Yet Harley’s odd behavior about his father had haunted her sleep and left her disquieted enough to request an interview with Detective Inspector Rory Alban to discuss Harley’s case.
For twenty minutes she had sat watching officers come and go, while the desk officer argued with a civilian at the front counter. Time was money in her profession and right now her pounds were flying out the window.
Heaving a sigh, she tugged her laptop from its carry case and snapped it open. After returning from Harley’s prison cell, her secretary had transferred a stack of digital folders to her computer for her attention. It appeared that Isla had also inherited Grace Kovac’s role in a merger that her firm was chasing. The partners wanted a female lawyer on board to win over the all-female partners at Perry Grais.
Scanning the documents, Isla pursed her lips. This particular merger seemed more of a hostile takeover driven by Ironrod Lyons Freemont’s desire to expand its own geographic breadth: Perry Grais had strong Asia connections which would open new clientele for them. This was the third merger pursued by Ironrod Lyons Freemont in the past year. Ernest Lyons’s motto was, “The only way to grow is to keep getting bigger and bigger.”
“Ms. Standing?” A very young and solemn constable stood before her. “Sorry for the delay, ma’am but the guv’nor can see you now. Please follow me.”
Isla blinked several times, disengaging her brain from the legal labyrinth she had been following to refocus on Harley’s case. Tucking her laptop away, she slung the carry bag over her shoulder, picked up her briefcase and followed the constable. They reached a battered door, which he rapped on sharply before pushing it open for Isla to move inside.
Isla hesitated at the threshold, casting a mistrustful eye over the two rickety chairs in front of a clapped out desk behind which sat a weary-looking man who didn’t even stand at her entrance, she noted.
“Take a seat, Ms. Standing.” DI Alban removed his black-framed glasses and rubbed his eyes, which moved his gray-flecked eyebrows like a pair of crawling caterpillars.
She waited but, as he offered no apology for keeping her waiting nearly forty minutes, she decided none would be forthcoming. Composing her features into an alluring smile, she made a show of crossing her legs as she perched carefully on the chair’s vinyl edge. It had always been her belief that men reacted more favorably to honey than vinegar.
“Thank you for your time, Detective Inspector Alban.”
Blue eyes above puffy bags skimmed from her red Louboutin soles to the top of her shining red helmet of hair. But the smile he gave her held little warmth and the eyes he settled on her were hard and wary, which confirmed he was wondering why Harley Carroll’s barrister was paying him an unexpected visit.
“Let’s cut out the pleasantries, shall we? Neither you nor I have the time. It’s a Saturday and if it wasn’t for a spate of burgs that are plaguing the district at the moment I wouldn’t be in the station on my day off to talk to you.”
He flipped open a folder on his desk.
“You wanted to ask me some questions about the Harley Carroll case. I’ve pulled the file, so fire away. What do you want to know?”
Isla stifled annoyance that charm wasn’t winning the day. Well, if he wanted to be business-like, she would oblige. Digging into her briefcase she pulled out her notes.
“On October 31 last year, the police were called to Falcon Gardens, Mill Hill where they found my client Harley Carroll sitting next to his dead mother, a kitchen knife in his hand and his father’s condom-sheathed penis beside him. His father, Keith Carroll, was lying dead in the office down the hallway.”
“That’s right.” Alban’s tone was guarded, as
though he was expecting some trap from her.
“Inspector, how far did the police go to look into a motive for the killings?”
“The accused couldn’t or wouldn’t offer any reasons for the killings.”
“I’m aware of that, but did you or your officers do any digging to see if there was something behind the murders? After all, Harley cut off his father’s penis. Doesn’t that action alone scream that something might have been amiss in their relationship?”
Alban returned his glasses to his face and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. The look he bestowed on her was amused rather than affronted.
“Ms. Standing, you’d be surprised at the number of severed penises I’ve come across in my time on the job. Is it a Freudian sign that perpetrators think they’ve been screwed over right royally by their victims? I’m sure it is. No doubt there was some tension between father and son. That’s quite normal given Harley was sixteen at the time. It’s a stressful age. Could cutting off Keith Carroll’s penis be a sign Harley was a young male teen testing his boundaries and rebelling against his father’s authority? Quite possibly.”
“No, Inspector, I’m not talking about the action being a figurative symbol. I’m wondering if it’s an indication of something darker. Was there ever any investigation into the possibility that Keith Carroll was sexually abusing his son?”
The blue eyes turned stony and his voice became flinty.
“We did our job, Ms. Standing. We questioned neighbors, friends and what family we could find, although, as you know, there are no close relatives. There was no evidence to suggest that Keith Carroll was anything other than a benevolent breadwinner for his family. According to his mates he was a good bloke, always willing to help out a friend.”
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 34
