by James Oswald
‘That’s a shame. But, you know, you can always call me up next time you’re in town. Maybe we could go have a meal or something.’ Christ, I sound like a teenager again.
‘Next time. Yeah. That’d be nice.’
The conversation peters out for a while after that, neither of us really sure what to say. Eventually, just as I’m about to come up with some vacuous small-talk platitude, Alex leans forward again, his voice low.
‘Met your new boss today.’
He can’t mean Bain, so that must mean Shepherd. Who was in important high-level meetings about something we’re not allowed to know about. ‘Diane?’ I ask.
‘Brigadier Shepherd, I think you mean.’ Alex’s mortification is a sight to behold.
‘Brigadier? I thought . . .’ But then I never thought at all. She told me she’d been army, and that superintendent was the nearest pay grade, or at least her level in the team pecking order. Brigadier sounds much more important and twirly moustache.
‘She thinks very highly of you. Reckons you’d have made a good soldier.’ He’s smiling again now. ‘Can’t see it myself.’
‘So what were you doing with Diane, then? Other than talking about me, that is.’ I emphasise Shepherd’s first name, just to tease.
‘Nothing much, just catching up. She might be a civilian now, but she was my commanding officer a while back.’ He drains the last of his low-alcohol beer, then sets the glass carefully down on the table before speaking again. ‘Word of advice, Con. If you’re open to it?’
Now I’m nervous. ‘Always open to advice, Alex. Doesn’t mean I’ll follow it.’
‘Sensible. But you’d be wise to listen when I tell you to trust Brigadier Shepherd. She might seem a bit chaotic at times, but it’s an act. She doesn’t take fools kindly, and she’s got one of the sharpest strategic minds I’ve ever seen.’ Alex shrugs again. ‘And she likes you. That’s worth more than gold.’
39
Karen’s already at work when I arrive at the station the next morning, which is just as well as I still need someone to buzz me in. The sooner Bain is back and can get the paperwork signed off the better. It’s bad enough that most of my old colleagues either actively hate me or wish I wasn’t here. An official transfer to the NCA would mean I could get out of this godawful building once and for all.
‘Any news on Stokes?’ she asks as we walk the corridors to the back of the station and the CCTV viewing room.
‘Not that I know of.’ I’ve not spoken to anyone at the hospital since I left yesterday evening. Karen’s question reminds me I’ve not spoken to anyone at the paper either, which probably means that’s going to come back and bite me in the arse sooner rather than later. ‘I’m sure if there was bad news it would’ve caught up with me by now.’
Karen raises an eyebrow at that, but says nothing.
‘He did say something though, before he collapsed,’ I add. ‘Well, a name actually.’ I fill her in on the details of the incident, firmed up by my going over them again and again in my head as I stared at the ceiling in Charlotte’s spare bedroom. It’s probably just as well Alex had to ship out, otherwise I might have forgotten the all-important bit.
‘He said I should ask Polly Cho. At least that’s what it sounded like.’
‘Who’s Polly Cho?’
‘I have no idea. Not the young woman whose case against Masters’ was dropped. She was called Sarah Gentle, I think.’ I pull out my notebook and flip back to the scrawled notes I took on the train from Euston what feels like a lifetime ago. ‘Yeah. Sarah Gentle. No idea what happened to her either.’
‘And I suppose you want to find out, rather than, say, viewing all this security camera footage.’ Karen nods at the box still half full of assorted different format recordings.
‘Half an hour on the PNC should do it. If the name doesn’t bring up anything, then at least we’ve tried.’
She looks at me as if trying is the last thing we should do, then shrugs and heads over to the nearest workstation. ‘You could do this yourself, you know?’
‘Not until I’ve got all my security clearances back. Believe me, I’ve tried logging on and I get bounced out quicker than you can say “password not recognised”. It’s bloody frustrating.’
‘I can imagine.’ Karen taps away at the keys, logging in and bringing up the search page, then types in the name ‘Polly Cho’. I stare at the screen as the hourglass spins, and then let out a disappointed sigh when it shows no results.
‘Different spelling, perhaps?’ she asks.
‘It’s possible, I guess. Stokes was pretty out of it when he told me, and he didn’t write it down. Not sure how else you can spell Polly though.’
And then it hits me with a horrible, hollow feeling in my gut. Can it be that simple? ‘Try Pollyanna. Or just Anna.’
Karen doesn’t ask why, just types in the full name. This time it comes back with a hit. Pollyanna Cho, sometimes known as Anna. She’s barely sixteen, but there’s a string of cautions. Most of her record is inaccessible because she’s underage, but there’s a photograph.
‘Christ, I can be slow sometimes.’
‘This is her? The young woman the shopkeeper saw?’
‘This is Anna, the girl in the hospital. We need to find her fast. Bring her in.’
‘For questioning?’ Karen bends down to the computer again. I suspect she’s checking the date of birth.
‘For her own safety. She knows Dan Jones. Probably helped him escape before he could end up like the other victims.’ I stare at the image on the screen, my thoughts tumbling like the levers in a lock. So many things slotting together. I should have seen it days ago. ‘What address have we got for her?’
‘You know she’s hardly likely to be there, right?’ Karen clicks away with the mouse until the relevant page comes up. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Of course she comes from the Danes Estate.
‘We’ll still need to follow it up though. You couldn’t get on to the local station, could you? I don’t fancy going in there without some uniform backing me up.’
Karen nods. ‘You going to tell the boss first?’
I pull out my phone, flick through the contact list for DCI Bain. ‘I’m going to try.’
Somebody must have thought the Danes Estate was a good idea, sometime back in the sixties or seventies. Centred around a quartet of concrete towers, it’s criss-crossed with elevated walkways that provide great cover for drug dealers, rudimentary shelter for the homeless and multiple escape routes whenever there’s a police crackdown. Not all of it’s bad. The local community trust do their best in the face of deprivation and joblessness, but it’s gained a reputation down the years that’s proven hard to shake. Rumour has it the local authority want to bulldoze the whole thing and sell the site to a private developer. I kind of agree with them on the first part, the second not so much.
The address we have for Polly Cho is a top-floor flat in one of the lower buildings that squat around the towers like feral children. It’s not that much different from my own apartment block, a mile or so away, except that this one’s still in council ownership and could do with a bit of TLC. There’s no lift, so Karen and I climb the concrete stairs, leaving our uniform escort to keep an eye on the car that brought us here.
I’ve barely had time to raise my hand and knock on the door before it’s yanked open. The woman behind it is tiny, but fierce.
‘I said no. Why you not understand? No. I don’t want buy your shitty insurance.’
‘That’s good, because we’re not trying to sell you any. Mrs Cho?’
The tiny woman goes from angry to suspicious in an instant, one hand still holding the door to slam in our faces should the need arise.
‘Who are you?’ She looks from me to Karen and then back again.
‘Detective Constable Eve, ma’am.’ Karen holds out her warran
t card for inspection, and I feel a momentary twitch of jealousy. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Fairchild.’
Something changes in the woman’s face as she hears my name. ‘Posh cop!’ Her face breaks into a smile. ‘I see you in papers. Come in. Come.’
Karen gives me a look as we follow the woman into the flat. I shake my head, ever so slightly, to warn her not to mention it. Not here, and certainly not back at the station. We’re both led into a small living room, its window affording a fine view over the nearby rooftops and on towards the distant skyscrapers of the city.
‘You not sell insurance, so why you here then?’
‘Can I confirm that you are Mrs Cho?’ I ask.
‘Miss Cho. Not Mrs.’ She shakes her head and then smiles again. She’s old enough to be Anna’s mother or grandmother, it’s hard to tell. There’s something of the moody young goth’s features about her face, too, although she’s the better part of a foot shorter. Small in all dimensions, like a child grown old without actually growing.
‘We have this as an address for Anna Cho. Is she here?’
I can tell before the old woman answers that it’s going to be no. She stiffens in her seat, the smiling eyes going hard again. More of the fierceness from when we first met her.
‘I not know where she is. She never come home no more.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘I not know. Month maybe? Six week? What she do this time?’
There’s a weariness to Miss Cho’s question that suggests we’re not the first police officers to have this conversation about her daughter.
‘What about her father? Might she be with him?’
‘He die long time ago. Promise me everything. Leave me nothing. Nothing except Pollyanna, and she only trouble.’
It’s beginning to look like a dead end. ‘So you’ve no idea where she might be?’ I ask.
‘Not on Danes Estate. I know if she were.’ Miss Cho shakes her head. ‘Maybe go ask those people she know. At the church.’
‘The church? The Church of the Coming Light?’
Miss Cho’s puzzled expression suggests it’s not going to be that easy. ‘I not know whose church it is. Big building. Over on Hatfield Street. It is youth centre now. Nobody pray there any more.’
I know the place she means, and from what little I know of her daughter, I can’t think of anywhere less likely for Anna to hang out. It’s probably the best we’re going to get from Miss Cho, though. I stand up, Karen copying me a moment later.
‘Well, thank you for your time. And if Anna does come home, can you ask her to call us? It’s very important we speak with her.’ I put my hand into my jacket pocket, where normally there’d be a card with my contact details. Except that I’ve not had to carry one for months, so there’s nothing but lint in there. It’s far too long since I did any proper police work.
‘Here.’ Karen doesn’t have cards yet either, but she’s organised enough to tear a strip from her notebook and scribble down a number. ‘This’ll get you through to either of us.’
Miss Cho stands up and takes the piece of paper. She places it on the mantelpiece, then bends down and fetches something from a small table beside her chair. My heart sinks when I see what it is. A tabloid newspaper with my face on the front.
‘You sign for me?’
40
‘Don’t say a word. You even breathe about this I’ll . . .’ I run out of steam. There’s nothing I can do about it, and Karen’s far too amused to let it lie.
‘Autographing your photo on the front page of a tabloid. That’s not something I ever thought I’d see someone do.’
Fair play to her, she shuts up about it by the time we’ve reached the ground floor and our waiting escort. A small crowd has gathered to see what all the fuss is about. Children who really ought to be in school, mostly.
‘You know the old church they turned into a youth centre?’ I ask of one of the uniform constables as we all climb into the car.
‘Saint Jude’s? Yeah. Been there a few times. Community policing and all that. Why?’
‘Girl we’re looking for used to hang out there, apparently. Might as well go and have a look, since we’re in the neighbourhood.’
‘Sure.’ He starts the car and pilots it gently through a crowd not all that keen on getting out of the way. ‘What’s it like?’
‘Eh? What’s what like?’
‘Seeing your face in the papers? The paps chasing you around? I’ve seen some celebs getting right narked about it.’
I’m about to protest that I’m not a celeb, when it occurs to me that’s not what he meant. For the first time since I gained my unwanted notoriety, here’s someone who’s genuinely interested to know how I deal with it. Not enjoying my discomfort or mocking me for my background.
‘It’s weird. And unhelpful. Gives me a tiny bit of sympathy for those folk tripping out of nightclubs at three in the morning. We’ve all been there, right? Mostly nobody gives a fuck though.’
I catch his grin in the rear-view mirror as we speed up the road towards the traffic lights. Clearly posh cops don’t say fuck.
The church is as I remember it, a fairly typical blackened stone building with a chunky tower and short steeple. If it ever had a graveyard the inhabitants have long since been moved on so that property developers can use the space to squeeze in more shops and cheap housing. There’s a double yellow line outside the front entrance, but we’re in a patrol car so park there anyway.
‘Probably won’t be long,’ I say to the driver as Karen and I climb out. At the top of a short flight of narrow stone steps, the iron-studded wooden door is shut, but there’s a light on beside it and more showing through the grimy stained-glass windows. When I try the door handle, it turns easily, the door opening on silent hinges.
‘Can I help?’
I’ve barely had time to take in the hall, much bigger on the inside than the outside might suggest, when a young man is approaching us. His face is a picture of concern, and behind him I can see a group of teenage girls, still sitting in a circle but all turned to see who has interrupted whatever it was they were doing.
‘Detective Constable Eve.’ Karen is obviously relishing her new role, brandishing her warrant card like it’s a backstage pass at Glastonbury. ‘This is my colleague—’
‘We’re looking for Anna Cho. Sometimes calls herself Polly, or even Pollyanna.’ I interrupt before she can tell them my name. I don’t want to be signing any more newspapers today.
‘Polly?’ The young man looks surprised. ‘Not seen her in months.’
‘But you know her?’
‘Yeah. She used to be part of the group. Maybe a year back, bit more.’
‘The group. Sorry. Who are you and what do you do?’ I can see his audience beginning to fidget, distracted by our presence.
‘Pete. Pete Oldman.’ He holds out a hand, so I shake it. ‘I teach drama. Get these kids interested in something other than drugs and booze.’
‘All girls?’
He looks around to the group in their circle, holds a hand up that seems to calm them. ‘This class, yes. We have some mixed ones too, but the boys can get a bit disruptive sometimes. You know what it’s like. Showing off, trying to impress their mates.’
‘Yeah, I get that. But Anna – Polly. Can you tell me anything about her? We’ve spoken to her mum, but that didn’t get us very far.’
Pete looks at me nervously. ‘She’s OK, though? Not in any trouble?’
‘We need to talk to her, and urgently. She might be in trouble, but not with us. Least, not at the moment.’
‘Well, like I said. I’ve not seen her in a while. I can ask the girls.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
I follow him into the hall, noting that this time Karen stays by the door. The class is a mixture of all
types, reflecting the multicultural make-up of this area. It occurs to me that some of the girls might be here because it’s part of a community service order or similar, but none of them seem anxious to leave. From the layout of the hall, the way they’re all seated in a semicircle, and the mixture of photocopies and dog-eared books they’re all holding, I’d guess they’re reading for a production. I can’t see what it is though.
I keep my distance while Pete talks to some of his class quietly. I notice he doesn’t approach all of them, and I’m sure he has his reasons. He’s not quite done when the girl sitting closest to me says, ‘You’re the posh cop, aren’t you?’
It had to happen, I guess. I shrug by way of an answer, hoping that’s enough. It isn’t.
‘Is it true you’re a millionaire, then?’
‘Dressed like this and working as a cop? What do you think?’
That makes her frown. ‘But the papers—’
‘Are full of shit, mostly. Yeah, I grew up in a big house and went to a posh school, but I wanted to be a police officer and my dad didn’t like that. So he cut me off without a penny.’
That takes a while to sink in. Then she mouths a silent ‘Wow’, and says nothing more.
‘Jen reckons she saw Polly last week. Out with some of those weird cultists. You know, the Church of the Golden Shower or something.’
The girl nearest me lets out a shriek of laughter at that, and I almost join her. Pete looks bemused, although I find it hard to believe someone working on the Danes Estate could be so innocent.
‘Church of the Coming Light,’ I correct him. ‘They’re on the high street, right?’
‘Yeah. Turned an old bank building into a shelter for the homeless. Seems vaguely ironic, don’t you think? The temple of high finance now used to feed and house its victims.’
I say nothing to that, keen to get away from this place. There’s only so much earnest community welfare officer my cynical heart can take. But as I’m leaving, my young admirer speaks up.
