Between Two Evils

by Eva Dolan

  ‘We are subject to the Official Secrets Act,’ Sutherland said helplessly. ‘Even telling you that probably puts me in contravention of it.’

  So that was where the fear came from. She was shocked but she realised this might be the last chance she got to speak to Patrick Sutherland, and she couldn’t let herself get sidetracked.

  ‘Is the allegation true?’ she asked.

  He turned away from her on the spot, fingers running through his hair. ‘I can’t talk to you. If Hammond found out I’d come here … I don’t even want to think about it.’

  ‘You were there, Patrick. Did you examine Nadia Baidoo?’

  Sutherland rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at the floor, muttering to himself. ‘I never should have come here. I wanted to help but I shouldn’t have risked it. What was I thinking?’

  ‘Someone must have verified her story,’ Ferreira said, taking another quick step as he made for the door. ‘It can’t have been Josh. That just leaves you.’

  He reached for the handle.

  Ferreira got there first. ‘Nadia’s disappeared, Patrick.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, but I can’t help you.’

  They were inches away from one another; she could see how powerless he felt, the regret making him look nauseated and weak.

  ‘Did Josh attack Nadia?’

  ‘I can’t –’ He closed his hand over hers and opened the door, darted out into the corridor.

  Ferreira followed, matching his fast stride as he aimed for the stairwell.

  ‘I know you’re scared,’ she said. ‘But you’ve made the right choice before. You were so brave to go into Long Fleet with that hidden camera.’

  He ran down the stairs. She stayed at his heel.

  ‘This is no different to what you did then,’ she said. ‘I just need you to tell me the truth.’

  He wrenched open the stairwell door and came to an immediate halt when he realised he couldn’t get through the one into reception. He looked at Ferreira’s pass.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, can you let me out now?’

  ‘Hammond isn’t sure whether Josh attacked Nadia,’ she said.

  Sutherland let out a low groan, pressed his hand against the door. ‘Of course he’s sure. He wouldn’t have forced Josh to leave if he wasn’t.’

  Ferreira tapped her key card on the reader and the door opened.

  Sutherland bolted out through reception but still she stayed with him, following him down the front steps that he took two at a time.

  ‘Did Nadia talk to you?’ she asked. ‘Did she tell you anything that might help us find her?’

  ‘I’ve already said way too much.’ Sutherland fumbled his keys out of his pocket, dropped them and scooped them up quickly. ‘You know what happened now.’

  ‘We need to find Nadia.’

  The locks popped on a nearby SUV and he veered towards it.

  ‘I can’t help you. Okay, you’ve had everything I know.’ He got into the car but Ferreira grabbed the door before he could close it.

  ‘Nadia could be in danger,’ she said. ‘Don’t you care?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He hauled the door shut and pulled out of the space.

  Ferreira watched him leave, walking back to the steps where Billy was standing smoking.

  ‘It’s really unpleasant watching your girlfriend chasing after a younger, more attractive man,’ he said, holding out his cigarette to her.

  She took a quick drag. ‘He’s terrified.’

  ‘Of you?’ Billy grinned. ‘He should be.’

  DAY FIVE

  SATURDAY AUGUST 11TH

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  She woke from a dream she couldn’t remember, her heart racing and the vague but fierce sensation of being chased driving her up from the pillow and out of the tangle of sheets, temporarily stricken by not knowing where she was.

  Then she saw the heavy chrome lamp on the bedside table and the familiar ink-blue walls and the chair in the corner of Billy’s bedroom where she’d thrown her clothes last night when they got home from dinner. She sat back down again, brushing her hair away from her face, looking down at her bare feet on the runner, waiting for her heartbeat to calm itself.

  The smell of bacon wafted in from the kitchen, along with a song she recognised, an Afro-Cuban band she liked and Billy insisted was weird and dated, although this was the second time she’d caught him listening to the playlist she’d made on the tablet he kept on the kitchen windowsill. They argued about music a lot, his taste running old and predictable, seventies classics he was too young for and the modern imitators of it. He said her taste was pretentious, which only meant he’d stopped paying attention to what was new sometime around graduating.

  So much about him tended towards the conventional: the flash suits and the flash car, the dark and heavy decor in his flat, which she still struggled to imagine him furnishing. There was something comic about the idea of him in John Lewis going through fabric swatches, poring over them as he tried to match the particular mahogany-brown leather of the sofa to a specific teal for the walls. How long had he agonised over that wool rug in the centre of the living room?

  Or maybe one of his exes was responsible for the look of the place? Maybe before her some other woman had nested in this flat, picked out the towels she now dried off with and the sheets they fucked on.

  The thought provoked a vague pique in her and she decided she didn’t want to examine why.

  Her mobile chimed as a text came in from Zigic.

  He wanted to go and talk to Ruth Garner again, suggested that she might be more forthcoming about Nadia Baidoo than Sutherland had been. That away from Long Fleet she could give up the information they both thought she’d been holding back when they interviewed her there.

  She texted back: What time?

  Half an hour. He replied instantly.

  She told him to pick her up. Then asked for forty-five minutes, wanting to eat whatever smelled so good.

  There was a pot of coffee on the breakfast bar and she poured a cup before Billy noticed her behind him.

  ‘I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed, but now you’re up …’

  ‘French toast?’ she asked.

  ‘With bacon and bananas. There’s maple syrup in the fridge.’

  He looked pleased with himself this morning and she wondered if it was because she hadn’t brought up last night the obvious question of what he and Zigic were working on. Instead she’d let him suffer through a perfectly nice dinner and then a film and then sex where he applied himself with a degree of conviction that only confirmed her suspicion that he was up to something.

  She wondered if he thought she’d been too busy to notice yesterday’s absence and Zigic’s ragged nerves, or if he simply hoped that by staying quiet about it, he could avoid having his judgement scrutinised.

  Ferreira sat down at the breakfast bar, watching him plating up their food in his boxers and T-shirt and striped apron, giving it all the care and attention he’d learned from MasterChef.

  He put her plate down in front of her with a flourish, then settled onto the next stool.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ he asked.

  ‘Ziggy wants to go speak to one of the Long Fleet nurses,’ she said, pouring maple syrup over everything. ‘Doubt we’ll be more than an hour or so. What about you?’

  ‘Gym, maybe. If you’re heading out.’

  ‘You’ll need the gym after this.’ Ferreira shoved a forkful of bacon and French toast into her mouth, let out a groan of pleasure. ‘Totally filthy.’

  ‘Just how you like it.’

  They talked about nothing while they ate: a new box set he wanted to try, whether she needed anything picking up since he was going out, that her toothpaste was running low and what about that coffee, was it strong enough, should they switch? All achingly normal and domesticated and she wasn’t sure how they’d come to this point, when exactly he’d morphed into someone who monitored her toothpaste s
ituation.

  It felt like a lifetime since that first encounter, when she’d handcuffed him to the radiator in the living room and fucked him on the floor. And now look at us, she thought.

  Playing nice while he’s lying his head off, just like an old married couple.

  ‘There’s a film on at the arts cinema in Stamford,’ he said, reaching across to top up her coffee. ‘Some French crime thing. If you fancy it?’

  ‘What are you doing with Ziggy?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sneaking off together,’ she said. ‘In and out of each other’s offices every two minutes. Since when are the pair of you so matey?’

  ‘This is embarrassing.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘But I’ve developed a crush on him.’

  ‘For fu—’

  ‘Swarthy good looks, those cheekbones … he’s a big, gorgeous bastard and you know it.’

  ‘This isn’t a joke,’ Ferreira snapped.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said, chastened. ‘How would you feel about inviting him in for a threesome?’

  He was smiling but she could see the discomfort in his eyes, the desperation under each attempt at deflection.

  ‘Billy, do not lie to me,’ she said. ‘What have you dragged him into?’

  ‘He’s a big boy, Mel. I didn’t have to drag him.’

  ‘You’re working Walton.’

  He looked away, spiked the last piece of French toast on his plate and slowly wiped it through a smear of syrup. ‘The less you know about it the better, believe me; we’re just trying to protect you.’

  She felt a hot flare of anger up her face. How dare they do this? Go behind her back and investigate Walton when she was the one he was harassing. She’d been the one to bring his girlfriend in, obliterating the alibis that had kept him on the streets through all the years they’d failed to nail him. He was her case as much as anyone’s. Her mess to clear up.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ she said. ‘Right now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not going to do that.’

  He still couldn’t look at her and abruptly she realised he was scared.

  ‘What the hell have you got yourselves into?’ she asked, hearing a tremble in her voice.

  He didn’t answer.

  Zigic was sensible, she told herself. He was smart and deeply moralistic and wouldn’t dream of venturing into the kinds of dark places Billy might go. He would be a brake on Billy’s worst excesses. This couldn’t be bad. Not really bad.

  But the fear was on him, she could smell it now, a sharpness to his sweat that hadn’t been there a minute ago. And she felt it infecting her too, sending a sick ache through her stomach.

  ‘I’ve got a right to know,’ she said. ‘I’m the one he’s coming after.’

  Billy put his fork down very deliberately on the plate.

  ‘It might be nothing. Can you just, please, give me a couple of days to work out where we are with it?’

  ‘Is it another case?’ she asked and immediately answered herself. ‘Of course it’s a case. Don’t you think I might actually be of some use in this? I am a detective after all.’

  ‘Mel, please.’ He slipped off the stool, paced to the far end of the galley kitchen, seemed to need the distance. ‘If we’re wrong this is going to get really, badly, fucking ugly. I’m just trying to protect you.’

  ‘I don’t need protecting,’ she told him. ‘I need to know what the hell you’re doing.’

  He walked out of the kitchen, didn’t seem to know where to go next, and she caught up with him in the living room, standing with the sofa between them like a rampart.

  ‘If you don’t tell me, Ziggy will,’ she said.

  ‘He’ll tell you the same thing I did.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Made a sacred pact, did you? Pinky-promised to lie to me?’

  ‘No one’s lying to you,’ he said, voice rising, hands coming down hard on the back of the sofa. ‘Why can’t you let me take care of this for you?’

  He actually believed it, she realised, hearing the petulant edge come into his voice. He thought she needed protecting and that he was the one to do it. After everything she’d gone through, the scars she had, the violence she’d survived.

  She went back into the bedroom, stripped off, thinking about this impulse in him that she didn’t appreciate. Thinking of how he’d been before they got together, the copper who found himself inexorably attracted to the family members of victims, vulnerable women on the periphery of terrible crimes. Not the ones you would have expected. Looks didn’t seem to come into it. He gravitated towards fragility, a certain brittleness that required the most careful handling.

  As she went to pull on her jeans, she stopped, looking down at the faded scars on the backs of her legs.

  That was when it started. A few months out of hospital, still raw and despairing, avoiding mirrors and showering in the dark so she wouldn’t have to confront those dozens of imperfections blasted across her skin.

  And out of nowhere he’d called her, asked if she wanted to go for a drink, catch up on the station gossip she was missing while she was out of rotation. It felt natural because they’d slept together a handful of times before and always got on when they found themselves thrown together on a case. It kept feeling natural as the drinks became sex, became more frequent sex, and then something they both had to admit was dating.

  But now she was wondering, what exactly about her did he find so irresistible?

  Did he seriously think she was one of those fragile women, just waiting for him to come along and save her? Was he such a poor judge of character?

  Ferreira grabbed her phone and her bag and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door on his entreaties.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  They’d been in the car for twenty minutes before Zigic cracked, unable to bear the negative energy boiling off Ferreira, the freighted silence buzzing between them under the hum of the air conditioning.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

  ‘We had a fight,’ she said.

  He wasn’t going to pursue this line of conversation. It was too fraught. The danger was always lurking that he would tell her exactly what he thought of Adams and then where would they be?

  ‘Billy told me what you’re doing,’ she said, staring across at him, eyes wide and unblinking. ‘With Walton’s case.’

  Zigic said nothing, almost certain that she was fishing. She knew they were looking into potential new charges, knew the two of them had been out all day yesterday doing something, but he doubted Adams had come clean about it. He was too worried about the repercussions. There was a dubious kind of machismo in play with him, Zigic thought, keeping Ferreira and Murray out of the proceedings, as if the little women needed protecting.

  Or maybe not machismo exactly. Adams would probably consider it chivalrous.

  But Zigic didn’t want anyone else to jeopardise their career over this.

  ‘Why are you angry about it?’ he asked instead.

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said, slowing down to let a pheasant cross the road ahead of them. ‘Did you want to be more involved?’

  She let out a snort of laughter.

  ‘You’re going to play innocent, are you?’

  ‘Mel, I don’t know what to tell you.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re looking into a potential case but honestly, I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere. As much as your boyfriend would like it to stick.’

  He spotted the low bulk of Long Fleet Immigration Removal Centre in the distance and accelerated towards it, as if he could leave this conversation behind them.

  He hated lying to her and she knew that.

  ‘Billy’s scared,’ she said. ‘And if he feels that way then you’re doing something really stupid.’

  Zigic didn’t answer, told himself it was only a couple more days, then this whole ugly mess would come to a head and everything would be out in the open, one way or another.

  She muttered s
omething under her breath and turned away, watching the fields whipping by.

  At the edge of the village, he slowed again, passing the green where the crime scene tape was still tacked up over Joshua Ainsworth’s front door. A couple were unloading their car in front of number 8, another weekend rental beginning, and he wondered if they were horrified to find themselves next to a crime scene or secretly thrilled. The husband was talking to the postman, pointing at number 6, and he guessed they’d be getting the full story already.

  He turned down the lane where Ruth Garner lived. The houses here were wider spaced and set further back from the road. Simple red-brick cottages in pairs and a few detached places in among them, with caravans on driveways and cars parked on the road. Her house was the last on the lane, with a large garden that gave on to pastureland, where a couple of horses stood huddled under the only tree to get out of the morning sun.

  ‘You lead,’ he said, as they got out of the car.

  ‘Because I actually know who we’re talking about,’ Ferreira said sharply.

  He let it go. He should have been working the case with her so he supposed he’d earned the jibe.

  She knocked on the front door and when there was no answer, they headed off around the side of the house.

  They found Ruth Garner sitting on a bench in the back garden, drinking a cup of tea, the remnants of her breakfast being fought over by a few birds that scattered as their footsteps rang out across the uneven paving.

  She started when she saw them.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ferreira said. ‘We did knock.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you,’ Ruth said, gathering up her plate and mug and going into the kitchen.

  But she didn’t shut them out, so they followed her inside. Stood until she offered them a seat, her good manners overcoming her discomfort.

  ‘You know I can’t tell you anything else,’ she said, leaning back against the butler’s sink, arms wrapped around her abdomen. ‘My contract – I just can’t.’

  ‘We’re only looking for some background,’ Ferreira said smoothly. ‘Nothing you say’s going to get back to Hammond or the company.’