by Alex Scarrow
Boyd laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe. That actually sounds like a pretty good idea.’
She looked at him. ‘You should, guv. You really should. Get to see us outside work for once. In our civvies.’
‘Christ. That’s what worries me. I’d be expecting Minter to turn up in a mankini and flip-flops.’
She laughed.
‘Or Sully in some bizarre cosplay costume.’ He pulled a face. ‘Whatever weird and worrying things you lot get up to in your spare time is of no interest to me!’
‘Relax. We’ll all come in sensible casual-ware and make short work of your jungle. Seriously, guv, you should do it. It’ll be a good team-building thing.’
‘Right. So not just a piss-up then?’
‘Well,’ Okeke said. ‘That’s a distinct possibility.’
13
DAY 3
Boyd finished his toast and stood up. ‘Right, I do believe the plan today is to make a dent in the garden.’
Emma and Daniel were still eating their breakfast. Neither looked particularly keen.
Boyd turned to look at the TV. Andrew Marr was on and interviewing some sprightly and well-groomed junior minister who’d recently been promoted to the cabinet.
‘So, Tim Portman, finally off the substitutes’ bench and onto the pitch. How does it feel to be promoted by the prime minister? To join his team?’
‘Exciting, Andrew, of course. I’ve given the party a long period of loyal service and I think the PM sees me as a mature pair of hands in a relatively young cabinet. A seasoned veteran in this politics game –’
Boyd picked up the remote and switched the TV off. ‘Come on, you idle buggers.’
They surveyed the garden, armed to the teeth with a formidable array of tools that Boyd had picked up in a B&Q trolley dash on his return from London. He felt like some conquistador staring uncertainly at an impenetrable wall of an Amazonian jungle.
Daniel and Emma stood either side of him, Ozzie at Emma’s feet, his head encased in his cone of shame.
‘So, what’s the plan, Dad?’
‘There isn’t one, really. Just hack and slash everything to the ground.’ Boyd looked at Daniel. ‘No prisoners.’
‘No mercy,’ Daniel added.
‘You got it.’
Emma went and sat down on the low brick wall that had kept the jungle from engulfing the house. She looked warily at the extension cable coming out through the dining room’s sash window, the orange flex snaking up from the plug block to Boyd’s electric chainsaw and Daniel’s hedge trimmer.
‘Well, me and Ozzie are going to retire to a safe distance if you’re going to be swinging those things around,’ she said.
Boyd turned to Daniel. ‘Locked and loaded?’
Daniel raised his strimmer like it was a heavy machine gun. ‘Remember, Egon: never, under any circumstances, let the plasma beams cross.’
Boyd laughed at the Ghostbusters reference. That was why he liked the lad. ‘All right, let’s proceed with Operation Slash ’n’ Burn.’
They both fired up their power tools and began to tear into the tangle of undergrowth.
An hour later, they stopped for a break. Emma brought them out a bottle of beer each and they surveyed the ground they’d cleared. Depressingly it really wasn’t very much; both of them had carved uneven semicircles around themselves a couple of yards in diameter, leaving a shin-deep bed of severed bramble stems and nettle heads at their feet.
‘Um, Boyd? This trimmer’s a bit rubbish,’ said Daniel. ‘It keeps clogging.’
Boyd’s chainsaw was the same. He’d bought at the budget end, assuming that even the cheapest power tools would be more than a match for tender green stalks.
‘Maybe Okeke’s right,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Scre-w-w-w… you.’
Boyd looked at Daniel sharply.
‘I didn’t say –’
‘Screw you.’
Boyd turned back to look at Emma. ‘What?’ she asked innocently.
‘Did you just –’
‘Screw you. And you.’ It sounded like a female voice. ‘… And you. And you.’
It was coming from beyond the fence to his right. He turned to see a head peering over the top. It belonged to a woman with long frizzy grey hair, held back on her head by an Alice band. She was wearing glasses that made her eyes look relentlessly owlish.
‘Ah! Finally taming that fucking wilderness!’ she hooted over the fence.
She stepped up onto something and the rest of her face, and the culprit who’d been telling them all to go screw themselves, came into view.
‘This is Fergie,’ she said, introducing the parrot. ‘The little bastard’s got a bit of a potty mouth.’ She shoved a hand over the top of the fence. ‘I’m Angela,’ she said. ‘And you’re Mr Boyd?’
‘Just Boyd,’ he replied, holding her hand lightly. ‘This is my daughter, Emma, and her boyfriend, Daniel.’
Angela waved at Emma. ‘Hello again.’ Then nodded at Daniel. ‘I can’t believe it’s taken this long to say hello,’ she said to Boyd.
Boyd glanced up at the blue sky. ‘It’s the weather, I guess. Brings us all out of our little caves, doesn’t it?’
‘Your parrot,’ said Emma. ‘Won’t he fly away?’
‘He’s tethered,’ Angela replied. ‘But I doubt he would anyway. He knows he’s on to a good thing here. He’s got free run of the house.’
Boyd looked up at her side of the building, which was a mirror image of theirs. At one time the entire building had been a small Victorian girl’s school and their backyards a generous and well-kept walled garden.
‘The whole place?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. He’s the man of the house, you know. He can be a bit of a rude bugger at times, though.’
‘I noticed.’
She turned to look at Fergie, tickling him just beneath his beak. ‘He finds other males a little threatening, don’t you, little man?’
The parrot’s beady eyes remained resolutely on Boyd. ‘Arse,’ he said.
It was at that moment that Ozzie’s cone of shame angled towards the bird and he finally figured out what had been tossing hostilities over the fence. He jumped to his feet and unleashed a barrage of his own.
Fergie squawked and flapped his wings frantically, dislodging a couple of feathers as he took to the air.
Emma reached down and caught Ozzie’s collar. ‘NO! Ozzie!’
Angela withdrew from the fence, reeling in Fergie by his tether, green feathers raining down on her as he flapped his wings in a frantic bid to escape to safety.
‘Sorry about that!’ Boyd called.
‘It’s all right!’ Angela replied. ‘I’d better take him in!’
Ozzie let rip with another rapid sequence of loud window-rattling barks that merged into one long woo-woo-woo.
‘Enough!’ Emma scolded him. ‘Enough! No barking!’
Ozzie did as he was told and finished off with a series of indignant huffs that made his jowls flap.
Later that night, as Boyd lay in bed with one of the bedroom sash windows open to let in a little breeze, he heard a volley of woo-woo-woo barking coming from next door and realised Fergie the foul-mouthed parrot had learned a new put-down.
14
DAY 4
Boyd rapped his knuckles on Chief Superintendent Hatcher’s door and almost waited for her to call him in. It was a small but childishly satisfying act of rebellion.
‘Ahh, there you are,’ she said. ‘Come on in and take a seat.’
Her office felt somewhat crowded this morning with Sutherland sitting in one of her visitor seats and another man in the other. Despite Her Madge’s invitation for Boyd to sit down, there was little opportunity for him to do so. The only available chair was backed into a far corner, and her handbag and a pair of comfy walking shoes were on the seat. He decided to remain standing.
The other man turned to look Boyd’s way and nodded a greeting. He had the tidy look of an ex-services man, with his
auburn hair clipped short and side-parted. He could have been in his early forties, but was doing a good job at looking trim and ten years younger.
‘Boyd, this is DI Douglas Lane,’ Hatcher informed him.
Lane stood up and offered Boyd a hand.
‘And this is our SIO on the case, DCI Bill Boyd,’ Hatcher continued.
They shook hands. Lane smiled. ‘So, you’re the detective who found the Ken Doll Killer after all this time?’ He had a very soft Scots Border accent.
Boyd nodded. ‘Well, blindly stumbled across him, more like.’
‘DI Lane is from the PaDP,’ added Hatcher.
The Parliamentary and Diplomatic Protection unit was one of the more publicity-shy and lesser-known departments of the Met – or it had been until Keeley Hawes’ character in a TV show a few years back had decided to have a tumble with one of its young officers.
Boyd raised a brow. ‘Arthur Sutton had a security assignment?’
‘Aye, but not an active one,’ replied Lane. ‘You’re aware he used to be a cabinet member?’
‘For all of five minutes, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s long enough that he’s on our Christmas card list,’ said Lane, smiling .
‘DI Lane’s going to tag along with you Boyd, until….’ Chief Superintendent Hatcher cocked her head as she looked at Lane for an answer.
‘Until?’ prompted Boyd.
‘The truth is… I’m here as a sacrificial lamb, a gesture of contrition,’ said Lane. ‘My department dropped the ball and we failed to protect Sir Arthur Sutton, so… I’m here as a spare pair of hands for you to make use of.’
Boyd smiled. ‘I wasn’t aware the Met sent apology-o-grams.’
Lane laughed. ‘It’s actually more about arse-covering. We messed up; we need to be seen as taking part in clearing up the mess.’
That was refreshingly honest. Boyd had a feeling he was going to like him. ‘Okay. Well, are you any good at making tea?’
Lane grinned. ‘Whatever you need me to do, Boyd.’
A free detective. He suspected Sutherland was doing mental cartwheels.
‘Also…’ continued Lane, ‘because of who the victim was…’
Ah, here we go. The caveat.
‘I’m here as an intelligence firewall. There may be confidential documents that pop up during this inquiry.’
‘And you’re here to redact them?’
‘To review what can go team-wide, and what can’t,’ said Lane. ‘I’m sorry, but anything to do with Sutton’s short period in cabinet needs to have an eye run over it.’ He softened that with a genuinely contrite smile. ‘There’s an agenda behind the gesture, I’m afraid.’
‘Has the body been officially ID’d yet,’ asked Hatcher.
‘Not yet officially, but it’s looking more than likely that it’s Sutton. The first thing on my list this morning is to chase up Ellessey Forensics.’
‘Ah, about that,’ said Hatcher. ‘The Met said they’d have their own pathologist look him over.’
‘Why?’ Boyd asked. She dipped her face slightly to look over her glasses. ‘Ma’am,’ he added.
Lane answered. ‘Again. It’s about damage limitation. To spare any blushes,’ he said with a hint of disdain. ‘Signs of substance abuse, or any… unsavoury behaviours.’
Right. Boyd nodded. Can’t have the Good and the Great looking bad now, can we?
‘And the Met’s paying,’ said Sutherland, trying not to sound too pleased about that.
‘I presume we can attend, though?’ said Boyd. Not that he particularly wanted to.
Hatcher nodded. ‘It’s our investigation, so I insisted that our SIO should have access to the examination and the report.’ She glanced at Lane. ‘But you’ll be accompanied.’
Lane offered him another apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry… I’m afraid I’m going to be hovering around you like a mosquito.’
‘Has Sutton’s next of kin been told about the body?’ asked Sutherland.
‘Second job this morning,’ replied Boyd. ‘Once we know for sure.’
‘Well then, I’ll let you press on with that.’ Hatcher stood up to indicate that the meeting was done. ‘DI Lane, is there anything else you need?’
He stood up. ‘No, ma’am.’
She nodded and turned to Boyd. ‘Right, Boyd you’ve got another murder inquiry team to set up. Do try to pick some different people; we need to spread the experience around our CID.’
‘I’ll try, ma’am,’ he lied. ‘But there aren’t that many spares. DCI Flack has most of the rest.’
‘Well, see what you can do. And tread very carefully with this one. Sir Arthur was something of a national treasure. He guest-hosted Countdown once.’ She went to her door and opened it. ‘Show Lane the essentials: the canteen, toilets. Find him a desk and a spare mug.’
Boyd led the way out of her office and Sutherland squeezed past the two men as they lingered outside in the hallway.
‘Incident Room’s free,’ said Sutherland. ‘No need to evict Flack this time. It’s all yours.’
‘Dammit. That’s my favourite bit,’ Boyd muttered.
15
Five minutes later, Boyd and Lane were up in the canteen with a coffee each and sitting at a table away from the noisy counter.
‘I didn’t know ex-members of cabinet got special attention too,’ said Boyd. ‘I thought it was just ex-PMs.’
Lane shrugged. ‘Ex-PMs and chancellors get the deluxe service; the rest get someone like me to check in on them every now and then.’
‘None of the glamour and excitement of a close protection unit then?’
Lane laughed. ‘No standard-issue Glock and shoulder holster, no hidden earpiece or dark glasses, I’m afraid. Not for poor Sutton.’
Boyd tore the corner off a sachet of sweetener. ‘So how long will you be attached to our operation? Until…’
‘Until the investigation has an outcome. I need to find somewhere to lay my doss bag.’
‘Doss bag?’ Boyd laughed. ‘So you are ex-military!’
Lane gave him a resigned shrug. ‘Does it show?’
He nodded. ‘Army?’
‘Paras.’
He didn’t offer any more than that and Boyd had spoken to enough ex-military in his life to understand when not to probe.
‘You know, Lane, this may take months. Where are you based?’
‘London,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve got an accommodation allowance.’
‘Nice. Well, there’s a decent seafront hotel not too far from the station. The Lansdowne Hotel.’
Lane sighed. ‘I’m on a budget. It’ll be a B&B for me. Close enough to walk to work and the train station would be handy.’
‘You could borrow one of our pool cars,’ said Boyd. ‘I’m sure Sutherland wouldn’t mind springing for –’
‘I can’t drive. Medical reasons,’ Lane added. ‘I have tonic-clonic muscular seizures. Used to be known as Grand Mal seizures.’
‘Shit,’ said Boyd. ‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Ah, it’s not a big deal. They’re rare and avoidable, but enough of a risk that I don’t get to drive any more. That’s why I’m doing this instead of guarding a minister or an ambassador, but it works for me. I’ve got a little boy. A desk job and nine-to-five hours are a much better fit.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Four.’
Boyd smiled. ‘Well, we’ll try our best to get you back home as soon as we can.’
16
‘Morning, everyone, said Boyd.
He looked at the tin of Celebrations in the middle of the conference table. Sutherland’s moving-in gift for the team.
Boyd had ignored Hatcher’s request to pull in new faces. Those that hadn’t been sucked in by Flack’s ongoing resource-drain investigation were the very bottom of the barrel: a mixture of old sweats serving time until they could take their pensions, and a few younger ones who just weren’t cutting it and would inevitably be bumped horizontally into another role. Bo
yd had picked the same core team he’d had with the Ken Doll Killer case. His team, as he liked to think of them.
Sitting round the table were DS Minter and DCs Okeke, Warren and O’Neal. Sully was riding shotgun at one end, ready to handle any crime scene queries. Leslie Poole was beside him with her notes on the state of the crime scene and the personnel who’d entered it in the initial thirty-six hours.
‘First of all, I’d like to introduce DI Douglas Lane – he’s from the PaPD. Everyone say, “Good morning, Mr Lane.”’
The room filled with their chorused voices sounding like an unruly class welcoming a new supply teacher.
‘All right, let’s keep this looking professional for as long as we can.’ He caught Minter’s eye and nodded at him to slide the chocolates up the table. Minter gave the tin a hearty shove and it came to rest like a curling stone right in front of Boyd. ‘Lane’s here as a spare pair of hands and a knowledge resource on the levels of protection Sutton had, which were…’ Boyd looked over to Lane to fill in the rest.
‘Not a great deal,’ Lane said. ‘Ex-cabinet members get a panic button, CCTV fitted and an annual security review, but that’s about it. It’s the ex-PMs and ex-chancellors who get a close protection assignment for life.’
‘Right. So, since Sutton served as a junior minister for about six months, he got the very basic security plan?’ asked Boyd.
Lane nodded. ‘Indeed.’
Boyd prised the lid off the Celebrations. ‘I got confirmation this morning that the body pulled out of Eagle House is Sutton’s body. They identified him through his dental records. There is clear evidence that he was tied down and, as of right now, this is officially a murder inquiry. Her Madge will be hosting a press briefing later today. Given that Sir Arthur Sutton is… was a very recognisable name, we’re going to have press descending on this station and they’re almost certainly going to try and catch us coming in and out on our own. If that happens… the answer is “no comment” every time. Clear?’
