Truth or Dare

by Tania Carver

  ‘I know. Public accountability, and all that. Wouldn’t want a solicitor saying I was entrapping their client.’ He got a mental image of Glen Looker and felt his stomach lurch. ‘Any words I could use?’

  ‘Loads. But they’ll all make you sound like you’ve been coached. You’ll think of the right ones. I’ve got faith in you.’

  Phil smiled. Felt something warm inside at her words.

  ‘Try to draw him out a bit,’ Marina said. ‘Ask him to arrange a meet, even, see what kind of response that gets. Is that helpful?’

  Phil sighed. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  When Marina spoke next he could sense the smile in her voice once more. ‘You could have come to all those conclusions. In fact, you probably have. Just admit it. You called me because you miss me.’

  Phil smiled too. ‘I do. Guilty as charged. And I wanted to know how you were getting on with your own maniac.’

  She laughed. ‘His and hers maniacs. Sums up our life, really.’ Her laughter faded. ‘And I miss you. How’s Josephina?’

  ‘Still with Eileen. They’re both fine. I phoned.’

  ‘Good.’ Another sigh. ‘Can’t wait to see you. I’ll be back later to —’

  There was a commotion in the background and he could tell Marina was distracted by it. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Good luck.’

  ‘Give my best to Anni and Mickey.’

  ‘And I’m sure they’ll return it.’

  They said their goodbyes, spoke briefly of their love for each other and hung up.

  Phil sat back in his office chair. Stared straight ahead. He still hadn’t decorated his office. Not even a photo of Marina or Josephina. He carried plenty of them on his phone, could look at them any time he wanted to. He didn’t even know whether he was staying or returning to Colchester. The job still felt temporary. He still sensed a slight feeling of unease. Of not fitting in fully with the team. Like they weren’t truly his and he was just in charge of them until their real boss came along.

  He pocketed his phone, shook his head.

  Maybe Marina was right. Maybe he had only called to hear her voice.

  He stood up, tried to concentrate on the job in hand. He had a press conference to address.

  But first, he had to get changed.

  He wasn’t sure which he was dreading most.

  37

  L

  etisha Watson was sitting in her armchair, twirling her cigarette in her fingers, watching it burn down to ash. Focused on that and nothing else. The world, and everything in it, was beyond her cigarette. Watching it burn was all that mattered to her. It was her world.

  She sighed. Knew there was something beyond the cigarette. Just didn’t want to look.

  There was a knock on the door.

  She jumped up, knocking the long line of ash onto the carpet, her heart skipping a beat. Moses, she thought. He’s come back…

  Quickly, she looked around for her ashtray, stubbed out the butt. She pulled her dressing gown around her, not yet dressed from saying goodbye to him earlier in the morning. One hand went to her hair, primped, hoped it looked okay. She had fag breath and needed a shower but that could all be taken care of once he was in. She made her way to the door, flung it open, smile ready.

  It froze on her face.

  ‘Happy to see me? Or were you expecting someone else?’

  Her facial muscles quickly regrouped, formed themselves into the stone features she used for talking to the police.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  DS Sperring smiled, put his arm against her doorframe as if he was an old friend, chatting about nothing. She noticed he was wearing latex gloves. It made her feel unclean.

  ‘Let’s not stand here chatting, eh, Letisha? Aren’t you going to ask me inside?’

  She didn’t answer, just walked away from the door, knowing he would follow her. She didn’t care if he closed it or not.

  He did. Followed her to the living room. Stood there looking round, taking it in. He turned to her. Smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ he said.

  ‘What d’you want? Got nothin’ more to say to you. I said it all yesterday.’

  ‘Did you now?’

  He walked round the room, picking up ornaments, examining them as if he were a fine art expect. Or thought they might be stolen.

  ‘Put them down. You’ve got no right to touch them.’

  He replaced the china figurine he had been holding, turned back to her. ‘I don’t think you did tell me everything yesterday, did you, Letisha?’

  She swallowed. Her throat felt full of stones. ‘What… what d’you mean?’

  ‘You held out on me, didn’t you?’ He walked over to her, stood right beside her, face to face.

  She felt scared. She had always felt scared in front of the police. Even when she hadn’t done anything wrong. She knew the way they threw their authority around. Hid behind their jobs. ‘I – I didn’t…’

  ‘Oh yes you did, Letisha.’

  ‘Get out of my flat. Now.’ Her words sounded weak, even in her own ears.

  Sperring just laughed. ‘Don’t mess me around. You tried that yesterday. And look where it got you. A return visit. Now if you don’t want me to come round again, you’ll talk to me.’

  She said nothing. Just wished him gone.

  ‘I know you were Darren Richards’ girlfriend. And we know what happened to him.’

  ‘I didn’t care about Darren Richards. That slag was welcome to him.’

  ‘Not what I heard. The fight?’

  She shrugged. ‘Made a mistake.’

  ‘Oh you did, Letisha. Because there was someone else more important that you didn’t tell me about.’

  She tried to swallow again. Couldn’t. ‘Who?’ Her voice arid.

  ‘Moses Heap.’

  She hoped her face wasn’t reflecting what she was feeling. She hoped she hadn’t shown it, not even in her eyes.

  ‘What… what about him?’

  ‘Big-time villain like that? Got previous, got a temper – might he have wanted to do you a favour?’

  Letisha felt close to tears now. ‘Get… get out…’

  Sperring didn’t move. ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘No. He’s… he’s a friend, that’s all. A friend. We go way back, him and me.’

  Sperring nodded. ‘I see. We had Mr Heap down at the station yesterday. He hid behind his solicitor.’

  ‘Suh… so?’

  ‘I think he’s lying. I think he’s hiding something. I want to know what.’

  He stepped in close, towered over her. She could see all the open pores, all the broken veins, in his nose. Letisha tried not to, but she couldn’t help herself. She flinched.

  ‘What’s he hiding, Letisha?’

  She hated him. Right at that moment she doubted she had hated anyone more. And within that hatred she found strength. Drew on it, nurtured it, let it grow. She looked up at Sperring, fire back in her eyes.

  ‘Get out of my flat, you fucking bastard. Or I’ll be the one calling a solicitor. And doin’ you for harassment.’

  ‘No need to be like that.’

  ‘Get out!’ she screamed at him. Looking round she saw the figurine he had been playing with earlier, picked it up and started hitting him in the chest with it.

  ‘Get out… get out.’

  ‘All right, all right…’

  She managed to beat him back down the hallway to the front door, screaming at him all the time. He fumbled open the lock, fell out onto the walkway. She stood over him, ready to bring the figurine down on him.

  ‘All right – I’m off…’

  She pulled back, watched him get slowly to his feet. He stood on the walkway about to say something to her but she pulled back her hand, ready to let the figurine fly. Instead, Sperring turned and walked away.

  ‘And stay away, you fuckin’ bastard!’ she shouted at his retreating back.

  She went back inside her flat, slammed the door behind her,
stood up against it.

  And burst into tears.

  38

  P

  hil felt that his tie was trying to strangle him. He pulled at it, tried to stick his finger down his collar, pull the stiff fabric away from his neck. Failed. It just sprang back into place.

  He hated wearing a suit. Hated wearing a collar and tie. In fact, he only owned one suit, one dress shirt and one tie. It was the ensemble he wore for giving evidence in court. And possibly funerals if he couldn’t get away with something else. And weddings if they were particularly formal. It was a good suit, he had to say that. If you liked that kind of thing, which he didn’t. Marina had been with him when he bought it. Had guided him to something he wouldn’t have gone for if he had been alone. Something expensive, well-tailored. It flattered and suited him. Marina really liked him in it, thought he should wear it more often. But on the few occasions he had worn it he couldn’t wait to get it off afterwards. Get back into something more comfortable. Something he could think and work in.

  ‘You ready?’ DCI Cotter looked at him, brushed something from his shoulder.

  ‘Yep,’ he said. He glanced down at his notes. ‘Got these. I’ll try not to look like I’m reading from them, though.’

  ‘Yes, remember to look up at all times. You’ll be on camera. No one wants to see —’

  ‘The top of my head. Yes, I know. I remember my media training.’

  Cotter smiled. ‘Good.’ She stepped back, admiring him. ‘You scrub up well. I should let you do more of these things.’

  ‘No thanks,’ he said.

  She checked her watch. ‘Time to go.’

  He nodded. Stood still for a moment, trying to quell his nerves, running over what he had to say and more importantly what he couldn’t say, in his mind.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you.’

  He nodded. Took a deep breath, another, and walked on to the small stage.

  Immediately he felt cameras turn to face him. Felt flashlights pop. He hoped he didn’t blink. Or not too much. Blinking and recoiling from the light made a detective appear untrustworthy, so he and every other officer who had attended the same training course had been told. He sat down behind the table, a glass jug of water and tumbler at his right, like he was on a chat show. Which in a sense he was.

  Cotter sat down next to him, seemingly as relaxed as if she was sitting on her sofa after work, just about to sip a large glass of merlot.

  He looked out at the people gathered before him. Recognised a few of the faces from the local papers and TV news. But there were plenty he didn’t recognise. The nationals were in town. They would be for a case like this.

  He cleared his throat, put his papers down on the table before him. Leaned into the microphone. ‘I’m… Detective Inspector…’ His throat felt arid. He paused, cleared it. ‘Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. This,’ he gestured to Cotter, ‘is Detective Chief Inspector Cotter.’ Cotter nodded. ‘I’m… running the, in charge of the team looking into the murders of Chloe Hannon and her daughter Shannon. And also the…’ He didn’t want to say the word mutilation but he didn’t know what else to say. ‘… case of John Wright who was found injured in a city-centre hotel last night. We believe the two cases are linked.’

  Hands were raised straight away.

  ‘If you could… if you could just wait until I’ve finished talking…’ Finished talking? Christ, he sounded like a teacher. ‘Then I’ll answer any questions you might have, that I’m, I’m able to.’

  He sat back, felt sweat running down his body. This was awful. He had been in life or death situations with criminals that were more pleasant than this.

  He started to talk, outlining the details surrounding the discovery of the bodies of Chloe and Shannon. He also informed them that there was another male at the scene, Darren Richards, who was currently in a stable condition in hospital. He then went on to talk about the banker John Wright who had been discovered after an anonymous tip-off. He had been taken straight to hospital where it was hoped he would make a good recovery from his injuries. His condition was currently critical but stable.

  He sat back once more, breathed out a sigh of relief. Then hoped that no one had captured that on camera. Considering who was in the room, he knew it was a forlorn hope.

  ‘If… if anyone has any questions?’

  Please don’t, he thought.

  But they did. Plenty of them. This was a high-profile case. The press, from what their sources had told them, knew that something was going on, that the police weren’t telling them everything. Usually it would be Cotter in charge of the press conference, managing to deflect difficult questions with practised ease. Ensure that the information that entered into the public domain was only that which the police wanted to be there.

  But Phil wasn’t as good as her. He realised that now. Still, he knew why he was there. What he had to say. He just hoped that she would step in when needed.

  ‘What makes you think the two cases are linked?’

  He didn’t know who had asked that. Someone from one of the nationals, he thought.

  ‘There are… similarities in, in both cases.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well… there are —’

  Cotter leaned forward into her microphone. ‘I’m afraid we can’t discuss that at this time.’ She looked grave. ‘If too much information, too many details, got into the public domain at this stage it could jeopardise our ability to catch whoever is doing this.’

  ‘Do you have any idea at all who it is? Who’s doing this?’

  Phil looked at Cotter. She nodded. ‘We do, yes,’ he said. ‘We have a number of leads, some promising. One in particular very promising. Yes. Unfortunately I can’t say more about it at this time. But you’ll know as soon as we do.’

  And on it went. Questions from the floor answered professionally by Cotter and, Phil thought, ineptly by himself. Those asking the questions were trained reporters. Any hesitation on Phil’s part, any chink in the armour, was swiftly dealt with. They were on him in seconds, following up with other questions, probing, fishing, making suppositions that were he to answer one way or another would be seen as an admission of something he hadn’t actually intended. Cotter sensed when he was out of his depth, jumped in whenever needed. Eventually Cotter told them that it was time to wrap up and there would be no further questions, but that Detective Inspector Brennan had something to say.

  Phil cleared his throat once more. This was why he was there. The part they had planned, the lines he had rehearsed. He looked straight ahead, resisting the urge to find a camera and stare down it. He knew that they would all find him.

  ‘If… if you’re watching this, and I’m sure you are,’ he said, ‘then know this. What you’re doing is wrong. You might think it’s right. You might think you have the right to do what you’re doing. Or that you speak for people. Ordinary people who you think share your views. Well, perhaps they do. Perhaps we all do. But there’s a difference between thinking something and acting on it the way you’ve been doing.’ He leaned back, keeping his features blank, trying to appear in control. Hoping cameras weren’t picking up his shaking hands. ‘Talk to me. I know you want to. And you know I want to talk to you. Or come and meet me. Then we’ll talk.’ He said nothing. Stared straight ahead. Let those words sink in. ‘You know how to contact me. Do it.’

  Phil and Cotter stood up at that point. The room went into immediate uproar as reporters all shouted questions at the two of them. Phil’s words had blindsided them all. None of them had been expecting that and they all wanted – demanded – to know more.

  They walked through a door out of the media suite. Phil stood up against a wall, started loosening his tie. Exhaling loudly.

  ‘Well,’ said Cotter, ‘I thought that went rather well.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Phil. ‘Depends what he does next.’

  As they stood there, Phil gasping for air and Cotter waiting patiently for him, a figure began to app
roach. They both looked in the figure’s direction.

  ‘Detective Inspector Brennan, Detective Chief Inspector Cotter…’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Phil. ‘As if that wasn’t bad enough…’

  It was Glen Looker.

  39

  T

  he Lawgiver was not happy. Really, really not happy. He paced the floor, up and down, across, around. Clenching and unclenching his fists. Grinding his teeth. Breathing laboured, ragged. Unaware of what he was doing, where he was going. Pacing and snarling like a caged animal.

  ‘Bastard… bastard…’

  What you’re doing is wrong…

  How dare he? How fucking dare he…? After everything he had said, the conversations they had already had. How he thought he had found an ally in Detective Inspector Phil Brennan, been led to believe that he would be amenable to what he was trying to achieve. Well, he wasn’t. The Lawgiver had been lied to. Brennan was just like all the rest. Things are black and white. The Lawgiver knew that. No doubt. It was at the core of what he believed in. Why he did what he did.

  To think or not to think. That was always the question. He had chosen to think. To question. He had chosen to confront those who wilfully made a mockery of society – the whim-worshippers and hedonists, the sub-humans – and do something about it. He stuck to his code of ethics. Had to. Had no choice. It was the only way he could live his life, the only way he knew how. But his actions, his glorious actions, made others see the correct way to live. Or should do.

  And he thought Brennan would help him to achieve his aims.

  How wrong he was. He should have known.

  He stopped pacing, tried to get his breathing under control once more. He played back the whole of the press conference in his mind.

  The first thing he had noticed was that Brennan looked different to when he had seen him last, how he had imagined him to be. A free thinker. Someone different. He didn’t look different. He looked like all the rest of them now. An ordinary man in a cheap-looking suit. Another dull, boring copper. Had he known that, he might not have approached him in the first place.