Truth or Dare

by Tania Carver

  A uniformed officer came and spoke to her. She moved away from Mickey, relaying her instructions. He caught sight of Marina on the phone, her back turned away from him. He knew who she would be calling. He felt a slight pang of envy then. Marina and Phil had such a good relationship. Perfectly matched, complementing each other in every aspect of their lives. But their happiness had been hard won and at some cost to them both. Yet their suffering just seemed to strengthen the bond between them. What he had with Anni was good, the best he had ever had with anyone, but sometimes he wished he didn’t have to work so hard for it. That was all.

  Anni finished talking to the uniform. Turned to face him.

  ‘Look,’ he began, and sighed. ‘I didn’t —’

  ‘Is everything ready for you to take the suspect back to Southway, Detective Sergeant Phillips?’ she said, straight-faced, businesslike.

  ‘Uh, yes, just about. I’ll, I’ll check —’

  ‘Make sure that you do. We don’t want any delays, do we?’

  Then Anni moved in close so her mouth was on his ear. ‘Just wait till I get you home, tiger…’ She pulled away, smiled at him, winked. Then she was off sorting out something else that needed doing.

  Mickey broke into a sudden grin. She had done it again. Played him. And he didn’t mind. In fact, he felt like his heart was about to burst.

  God, he loved that woman. Totally and wholeheartedly. More than love, if he was honest. He firmly believed she had saved his life.

  Well, Anni and Phil Brennan. Both in different ways.

  He had originally joined the Met. Growing up in Ilford, on the border of East London and Essex, that was all he had wanted to be, a copper. But not some Dixon of Dock Green, Juliet Bravo type. No, he had grown up watching re-runs of The Sweeney. Thief Takers. Stuff like that. His favourite film was the old gangster pic The Long Good Friday. They had fuelled his fantasies, given him his direction in life. Acted as the best recruitment incentive possible. He had never wanted to wear a uniform, not like some of the others that were attracted to the job, who had been in his class at Hendon; he had just wanted to drive around in a fast car, taking it out on villains, criminals, the scum of society. Giving them what for. Making the streets safer for civilians and if some of them ever wanted to show their gratitude in some way or another, then why not?

  And, to his surprise, it had worked out just the way he had wanted. He had ended up on the Drugs Squad and in with a team of guys about the same age as him who all seemed to have been brought up sharing the same collective fantasy. Once they realised that about each other, they lost no time in acting it out.

  And it had been fun for a while. Living out his adolescent fantasy in the most untouchable way possible. But it had also been the start of his downfall.

  Before long, he and the rest of his team had been taking backhanders, getting freebies from working girls, taking more drugs than the villains and turning more blind eyes than Helen Keller. And while his contemporaries were thriving on it – or appearing to – it was crippling him. Not just physically, with his sickness record starting to attract attention, but it was beginning to damage him, corrupt him, in ways he hadn’t imagined. Mickey had never had much truck with those who talked of a soul, happy clappers and the like. But the longer he went on behaving as he was doing, the more he felt he had a soul. And it was being corroded.

  Eventually, feeling he had no option, he put in for a transfer. His adolescent dreams and fantasies were, he had discovered, just that. Real life was so much harder. He didn’t care where he went. Anywhere, doing anything, so long as it was away from what he had been doing, away from the people he had been doing it with.

  Luckily, a vacancy for a DS in the Major Incident Squad based in Colchester, Essex, came up. Mickey jumped at it, grabbing it with both hands. He didn’t think he would get it but didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t. He travelled up the A12 to Colchester to meet with Phil Brennan. At first he thought he had blown his only chance. He had gone into the interview with all the swagger his time at the Met had invested in him. And seeing the man in front of him, wearing jeans, Converse and a plaid western shirt, his hair spiked up and quiffed, Mickey realised he had made a huge mistake. As it turned out, Phil Brennan saw something in him, had managed to look behind all the macho, pseudo-alpha-male posturing to see an intelligent, creative detective struggling to get out.

  And that was how, professionally, Phil Brennan had saved his life.

  And then there was Anni. Just as Phil had done through the job, Anni did the same for all the other parts of his life. He had never really had a proper relationship with a woman before he met Anni. He’d had sexual relationships, of course. Sometimes taking freebies from working girls or flashing his badge to entice uniform groupies when the mood took him, but never anything long-lasting, meaningful. His worldview was the same as that of his previous colleagues in the Met: women were there to be used, not there as equals. Anni changed all that. She was the first woman that he came to view as an equal. They were colleagues, friends. She just happened to be a woman, too. And gradually, he realised how attracted he was becoming to her. And she, not that he dared admit it to himself, to him.

  But he was hesitant to act upon his feelings, to ask her out. If he was honest, he was scared to. He didn’t want his attraction to her to get in the way of their working relationship, their friendship. Anni, taking her lead from him, was doing the same. That was why it had taken them so long to get together.

  They needn’t have worried. He needn’t have worried. Anni was perfect. As wonderful a lover and partner as she was a friend and colleague. He had his job, his partner.

  Mickey, at that moment, waiting to take Fiona Welch back to Colchester and then meet up with Anni later in the evening, had never been happier in his life.

  49

  P

  hil almost ran into the squad room. With its wood-block floor, half panelled walls and painted brick, it looked like an old schoolroom. The way the team were standing around silently, expectantly, only encouraged that impression. He was the teacher, the silence seemed to say. They were all waiting to learn something.

  Phil sat down opposite Elli, picked up a handset. Behind her keyboard, she gave him a nod. Phil tried to quell his hammering heart, put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Phil Brennan.’ His voice as businesslike as possible.

  ‘Hi, Phil, know who this is?’

  The voice was muffled, as usual, but unmistakable. In a short space of time it had become very recognisable.

  ‘Yes, I know who this is.’

  A pause. ‘Say my name.’ Quietly, a shudder running through the words.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say. My. Name.’

  Phil looked up, caught Cotter’s eye. She nodded for him to get on with it.

  ‘Lawgiver.’

  The Lawgiver laughed. An edge of mania to it. ‘That’s it, that’s it… good man.’

  Phil tried to ground him, control the conversation. ‘We’re on to you. We’re getting nearer.’

  More laughter answered him. ‘No you’re not, Phil, don’t lie. If you were on to me then I’d be surrounded by a whole load of armed police all pointing their weapons at me.’ A pause. ‘I’ve just looked around. I don’t see anyone.’ Another laugh, not as maniac this time. More valedictory. ‘You’re nowhere near finding me.’

  Phil didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to answer him with.

  ‘So,’ said the Lawgiver, continuing, ‘I saw your press conference.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘Not the ringing endorsement I was hoping for, if I’m honest, Phil. I mean, are you with me? On my side? Nothing I heard on the TV made me think you are. Is that the case?’

  ‘Is it as simple as that?’ said Phil. ‘Either for you or against you?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the Lawgiver, ‘it is. Because it sounded like you were against me on the TV. Is that right? That you’re out to get me. Would I be correct in thinking
that?’

  Phil sighed, made his voice sound weary, reasonable. ‘Listen, why don’t we just talk, eh? You and me. If you don’t want to come in, we can go somewhere, somewhere neutral. What d’you think of that?’

  The Lawgiver’s voice hardened. ‘Don’t insult me. We’ve had this conversation before. Clearly one of us is incapable of remembering it. I won’t come in to talk to you. I won’t meet you somewhere neutral to talk to you. There’s no such thing. Your team would be on me within seconds. And then I really would be surrounded by armed coppers. I’m not an idiot so don’t treat me like one.’ His voice rose on those final words, became filled with menace.

  Cotter made a gesture with her hand: keep him talking.

  ‘Look,’ said Phil, trying not to lose control of the conversation, ‘I agree with what you’re saying. Totally. You’ve got a right to be angry about the way things are.’

  ‘Oh, have I? Well, that’s very kind of you to allow that, Phil, thank you. Thank you very much.’

  Phil ignored the outburst, kept on. ‘I agree with you. I’m not lying. You’ve got a right to be angry. We all have, absolutely, at the way things are. I share that anger. Everyone on my team shares that anger. Each and every day.’

  ‘Oh, really? Even when you and your sort are often the cause of that anger? You’ll forgive me if I’m not convinced by your words.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it seems like the police are on the news on a daily basis for doing something wrong. For falsifying evidence at the scenes of shootings. For covering up for each other when you make a mistake instead of being honest and admitting it. A Brazilian electrician is mistaken for a terrorist and murdered on a tube train. Witnesses gave false evidence to the TV cameras on the police’s say-so. A so-called gangster is executed on a Tottenham street. An innocent newspaper seller is attacked and killed by a riot copper with previous for violent behaviour. A discredited doctor even fixed the post-mortem for them. They’re all dead. All covered up by the law. Their killers were all coppers. Their killers all walked free. Their killers were all your lot. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you when you say you share my anger.’ His voice was impassioned, rage bleeding through every word.

  ‘You can believe what you want,’ said Phil. ‘I was just as appalled as you were when I read about those incidents. Police or no police. But you should believe me when I say it.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve thrown examples at me, let me throw one at you. What about this. We get called in to some crime scene. A child’s been killed, say. For argument’s sake. We go in, talk to the family. Now we know straight away that the father was abusing the child. And threatening the child’s mother. Probably abusing her, too. But we’ve no evidence. We can’t prove it. So what do we do? What should we do?’

  Silence on the line.

  ‘I’m asking you a question.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said the Lawgiver, his voice dripping sarcasm, ‘I thought it was rhetorical. You want an answer? Really? Make the father talk.’

  ‘But we have nothing to go on, besides a dead child. The mother won’t talk, the father won’t crack. So we do what we’re trained to do. Gather evidence. Watch. Build up a picture. Then we pull them in for questioning. And we never ask a question that we don’t know the answer to, or that we’re expecting an answer to. We put aside our personal feelings about these people and what they may or may not have done, and we do our job. Because this is about justice. Not vengeance. About justice being done and being seen to be done.’

  ‘But what if it goes wrong?’ said the Lawgiver. ‘What d’you do then?’

  ‘You mean get angry?’ said Phil, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘Anyone can do that. Get all self-righteous and violent. Pick up a weapon and convince themselves that they’re doing something positive. But that’s still not justice.’

  ‘This case with the dead child. What if it goes to court and the father gets off? Or the mother? Insufficient evidence, the defence tells a better story, what if you or one of your lot follows the wrong procedure? Where’s your justice then?’

  ‘That’s something we have to live with,’ said Phil. ‘We don’t always get it right. But we try to. It’s not perfect, but that’s the way it is.’

  ‘That isn’t justice,’ said the Lawgiver, anger again in his voice. ‘Not done, not even seen to be done.’

  ‘So what would you do?’ asked Phil.

  The Lawgiver laughed. It was a harsh, metallic sound. ‘I’d make sure he or she could never kill again. Because they would. They’ve just got off. They’ve learned nothing. They’d pay for what they did. One way or another.’

  ‘Take the law into your own hands?’

  ‘Why not?’ said the Lawgiver. ‘You don’t seem to have much use for it.’

  Phil fell silent. He was aware of Cotter gesturing to him, making him talk on, but he couldn’t think of anything to say for the moment.

  In the absence of words from Phil, the Lawgiver continued. He sighed. ‘Oh, Phil,’ he said, ‘I had such high hopes for you. Such high hopes.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ said Phil, sounding anything but.

  ‘So am I, Phil, so am I. I was led to believe you were someone I could do business with, as that evil old trout Maggie Thatcher used to say.’

  Phil was suddenly energised by the Lawgiver’s words. He sat forward, grasped the handset harder. ‘Who told you? Who led you to believe that?’

  There was silence on the line. Phil heard the Lawgiver make a sharp intake of breath. He knew in that silence that even if he hadn’t given himself away, the Lawgiver had said too much.

  Phil pressed on. ‘Who led you to believe that?’

  ‘Just listen,’ said the Lawgiver, cutting Phil’s question dead. ‘I’m going to take the law into my own hands again. Since you’ve been so comically inept at catching me up until this point, at stopping me, I thought it only fair to give you a head start.’

  Phil’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘What d’you mean, tonight?’

  ‘What d’you think I mean? I shall be making someone pay for their crimes tonight.’

  Without looking round, Phil could sense the growing unease in the squad room. He tried to keep his voice calm and level. ‘Do we get to know where?’

  The Lawgiver laughed. ‘You get more than that. You get to know who.’

  Phil waited. Realised he was supposed to ask the question. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone responsible for keeping most of the criminals of Birmingham on the streets. For making sure they evade justice – both your variety and mine – as much as possible. One of the worst specimens of sub-humanity working in an industry that thrives on it.’

  ‘Who?’ Phil tried not to lose control of his voice.

  ‘Glen Looker.’

  Phil was aware of the squad room holding its collective breath around him.

  ‘We’ll stop you,’ said Phil. ‘We’ll protect him.’

  The Lawgiver laughed once more. ‘No you won’t. Oh, believe me, you won’t. Justice may be blind, but you, I’m afraid, are blinder.’

  He hung up.

  The squad room burst into action.

  50

  T

  he light was fading, day was coming to an end and Sperring was thinking the same thing about his vigil.

  He had sat outside the studios of the No Postcode Organisation waiting for Moses Heap to appear all afternoon. And while he was sure there were things he could have been doing – or that Phil would have preferred him to be doing – before clocking-off time he still felt he was doing something worthwhile. Fair enough, not many people had gone in and out, or at least not many faces that he knew, but that didn’t mean it was time wasted. Not in his eyes. He had photographed everyone that went through the doors so at least he would have something to go on when he got back to the station. And even if Phil didn’t want him to keep up this lin
e of enquiry, something – some old-time copper’s instinct – told him that he would need those snapshots one day. That he was looking at present and future gang members.

  He didn’t believe that rubbish about Moses Heap seeing the light. Not one word of it. Criminals like him just didn’t do that. Not in Sperring’s experience, anyway. Fair enough, there were one or two, and they made a big show of it, writing books about their experiences, their poor, awful childhoods, how they were led into a life of crime. How they had seen the error of their ways. Decided to make their living as a writer or an actor or an artist, something like that. Something the world was crying out for more of. Still, Sperring thought, good luck to them. As long as they didn’t come back on to his manor he didn’t really care.

  Circumstances. That was all. And from the look of the place Moses Heap was hanging out in and the people he was mixing with, his circumstances hadn’t changed at all. Therefore, he hadn’t. Sperring’s logic. Never wrong.

  Sperring yawned, checked his watch. Jesus, time had started to crawl. Backwards, from the look of it.

  He contemplated leaving it for a while, going to clock off, get something to eat, maybe come back later. Follow Heap around in his own time. Heap never used to be much of a one for the daytime. He doubted he had changed that much.

  Then his phone rang. Nadish.

  ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘Get back to the station,’ said Khan. He sounded like he was out of breath, like he’d been running the length of Steelhouse Lane.

  ‘Why? Nearly clocking-off time.’

  ‘It’s him. The Lawgiver. He’s been on the phone again. He’s given us a target, location and time. Boss wants everyone on it. Now.’