by Bo Brennan
“I’m saying nobody came to me three years ago. If they had, my unit would’ve investigated then.”
“Like you investigated Becky Adams’ murder?” Cooper said. “Swept that nicely under the carpet, didn’t you?”
Colt’s jaw tightened. “My team has no connection with the Becky Adams case.”
Miranda Ayres pulled out her earpiece. The producer was trying to wrap it up. She ignored him, pressing on as the Primetime Issues theme tune began playing lightly in the background. “But your current investigation is related to the Becky Adams case,” she said hurriedly. “What’s the likelihood we’ll see one of those men currently on trial for grooming, finally tried for that poor girl’s murder?”
Colt glanced at her sideways, showing his disdain. “You’ll have to ask the people involved in that investigation.”
“And that would be Commander Hussein, would it?” Councillor Cooper shouted. “The Met are corrupt. They’ve been covering up the Asian grooming epidemic for years. All the authorities have. The Muslims have infiltrated and contaminated all of them. They’ll be raising the Islamic flag over Downing Street soon!”
Colt glared at him. “You might want to shut up now.” He turned his glare on Miranda Ayres as the background music suddenly cranked to ear-splitting volume. “Are we done?”
“Yep.” The host pushed furiously away from the set and stormed towards the producer. “You cut me!” she shouted. “I didn’t get my closing speech done or anything!”
Colt rose from his seat and beckoned the people waiting in the wings.
Colin Cooper glanced over his shoulder as DC Clorindar Hussein and DS Nathan Sharp appeared either side of him.
One jerk of Colt’s head sent the Liberty man scurrying from his seat next to Cooper and into the safe space on the opposite sofa vacated by Colt.
“Stand up, please, sir,” Clorindar said.
Cooper ignored her.
“You heard her,” Nathan Sharp said. “Stand up.”
Cooper slowly rose to his feet. “I heard you,” he said, staring at Nate. “Didn’t hear no one else.”
Clorindar stepped in front of him, pulling out her cuffs. “Hands front, please, sir.”
Again, he ignored her. Eyeballing Colt over her head, he said, “What the fuck is this? It’s those filthy pigs you should be nicking, not me.”
The MCB and Liberty men sensibly remained seated, silently looking on as Cooper hocked a mouthful of gob in their direction.
Clorindar took his wrist.
Councillor Cooper couldn’t ignore her anymore. “Don’t touch me you stinking, filthy bitch,” he shouted, knocking her arm aside.
Colt was on him. In a split-second Councillor Cooper was sprawled on the floor, hands wrenched painfully between his shoulder blades, face flattened in his own spit. “You’ll pay for this!” he screamed. “You all will! This is a fucking set up!”
“Hands back it is then,” Clorindar said, calmly snapping the cuffs in place.
As Detective Constable Clorindar Hussein read Councillor Colin Cooper his rights, Miranda Ayres grabbed her producer’s arm. “Please tell me those cameras are still rolling and their mics are switched on.”
The producer smiled and slowly nodded. “We’ll have it edited and ready for the ten o’clock news.”
The Primetime Issues’ host excitedly clapped her hands together, squirming with delight. “Thank God we didn’t have to pay to get AJ Colt on the show,” she said. “We’d never have been able to afford him.”
Chapter 36
Eighteen Months Previously
The Daily Herald
Friday, 10th September
MET’S ELITE INVESTIGATING BECKY MURDER
By Ryan Reynolds, Crime Correspondent
NEW Scotland Yard’s elite Paedophile Unit are investigating an organised on-street grooming gang believed to be implicated in the death of tragic teen Becky Adams.
It’s the first major development in the case since the heavily pregnant Haringey teenager and her unborn baby were brutally butchered in what officers described as a ‘frenzied attack’ eighteen months ago.
Head of the Met’s elite Paedophile Unit Detective Chief Inspector AJ Colt declined to comment on the case, but confirmed his officers had a number of ongoing inquiries relating to organised on-street grooming gangs operating within the city.
Becky, 16, was last captured on CCTV exiting Richmond Station. Police divers recovered her body from the St Helena Pier area of the Thames one week later. She’d been savagely stabbed seventy-two times.
Chapter 37
Park Gate, Hampshire
In the glow of the outside lamp, Colt could see her sitting on her deck, wrapped in a blanket. He parked his car next to hers on the hard standing, and climbed out.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against his bonnet. “Bit late for a swim.”
India pulled the blanket closer, tucking her chin inside and keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the steps. “Work made me feel grubby.”
From the safety of the shadows, Colt winced. “You went in then?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sorry I booked you off and didn’t tell you. Must’ve been awkward.”
She lifted her shoulders until the blanket almost covered her ears. “It was. Especially the interrogation from Firman.”
Colt crossed his arms and lifted his chin. He wasn’t about to apologise for that. He wanted to put his hands on the man who’d put his hands on her – so what? He was human.
In the silence that followed not even the wind dared to whisper.
Eventually she looked up, her cold blue eyes piercing the darkness. “I don’t need you to fight my battles,” she said.
“I know you don’t. But I love you, India. Which means you don’t have to fight them on your own anymore. That’s never going to change, so I’ll work on keeping a lid on it while you work on getting used to it.”
She frowned, opened her mouth to speak and closed it again without saying a word. She looked anxious, lost, unsure where to go when the battle was done.
“Have you eaten?” Colt said.
She nodded.
“Good.” He grinned and reached into his car for the off-licence bag on the passenger seat. “Want to get rat-arsed with me then?”
One side of her mouth quirked into a smile. “Are we celebrating or commiserating?”
Colt loosened his tie and walked up the stairs, holding his hand out to her. “Whatever you want, babe,” he said, pulling her to her feet.
She stretched up on her toes and kissed him. “Thanks for saving my car and cleaning up my mess.”
“My pleasure,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and backing her through the door.
In the brightness of the lounge, her eyes narrowed. “Are you wearing make-up?”
He dropped his forehead to hers and groaned. “Long story, the short version is Councillor Cooper’s in custody.”
“You, make-up, and a paedophile politician? It might be long but it sounds like a story I want to hear.”
“Tomorrow, babe.” He smiled and kissed the top of her head. And then he saw it. “What is that?”
India took the bag of bottles from him, one hand still gripping the blanket. “It’s a pole.”
“I can see that,” he said, staring up at the beam of the houseboat where it was bolted into place. “But what’s it doing there? Have the surveyors picked up a problem with the roof or something?”
Frowning, she looked up from the wine bottle, held precariously between her bare knees. “What surveyors?”
He extended his hand for the corkscrew. “You want me to do that?”
She shook her head. “What surveyors?”
“I’m having the hard standing extended and the pontoon replaced,” he said, returning his attention to the pole and giving it a firm tug. The serious piece of steel didn’t budge. “They’re starting Monday. Four-day week, strictly eight-to-five. They won’t disturb you. You won’t even know the
y’re here.”
India glared at him as she yanked the cork free of the bottle. “Thanks for consulting me.”
Colt shrugged. “The pontoon’s not safe. It won’t last another winter. I’m surprised it lasted the night. I don’t want you near it till it’s finished, especially not in a car.”
“Half of it’s mine!”
“Fine. I’ll get them to pile your half of the rotten wood outside your door. Shall I get them to replace this roof while they’re at it?”
India sighed and handed him a glass of wine. “There’s nothing wrong with the roof.”
“So what’s with the pole?”
She cleared her throat. “It’s for getting in shape. I want to drop a few pounds.”
Colt spluttered a laugh. “What are you going to do, gnaw on it when you’re hungry?”
“No. I’m going to use it to dance and tone up.”
He ran his eyes over her blanketed body. Just knowing she was naked underneath, caused every part of him to stir. He loved the softer, more feminine curves she was sporting lately. “I like you how you are.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” she said, staring at him.
Colt stared back. Thrust his free hand in his pocket to stop himself from grabbing her. “You’ll always do it for me, babe.”
She rolled her eyes and sank her wine. Raising her empty glass, she said, “I thought you wanted to get rat-arsed.”
“I thought you wanted a workout.” He winked at her, chinking his full glass against her empty one before downing it in one. “Look, there’s a whole gym at your disposal less than fifty yards away. Open all hours. No membership fees. No strings. You don’t even have to live there to use it, or sleep with its owner. You want to get in shape, it’s all yours. I’ll even sort you out a training programme.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate without worrying about my wobbly bits,” India said, refilling their glasses.
“I don’t,” he murmured. “But I know a thing or two about working out . . . and that thing is not gonna help you.”
“Hmm.” She gave him the once over as she handed him his glass. “Have you got as much experience of pole dancers as you do of working out?”
Yep, plenty, Colt thought. He took a gulp of wine and dropped onto the sofa, wondering where this conversation was going.
“Don’t worry; I don’t want any dirty details of past lives or anything. It’s just my main witness in the bank robbery case reckons she’s only been pole dancing a month, and she’s fit as fuck. I mean, like you, rock hard.”
Colt wet his lips and placed his glass on the coffee table. He’d bedded enough dancers in his time to know the toned physique she was talking about took years to accomplish. “Then she’s telling you porkies, babe. You are not going to get ‘fit as fuck’ in a month by swinging around a pole.” He raised a brow and reached for her blanket, pulling her towards him. “Unless it’s my pole.”
“And it’s rock hard, right?” India laughed as she fell into his lap.
Winchester, Hampshire
The turnout system activated as soon as Gray Davies bedded down for the night.
Scanning his pager, he swung out of his bunk and into his boots under the full glare of the fire station’s automatic lights and blaring alarms. ‘Cantilever Court’ was all his pager said. His heart skipped a beat. Knew he should’ve confiscated Mrs Reynolds’ bloody chip pan when they did the inspection.
Charlie was first down the pole. “Cantilever Court,” he shouted, tearing the printout from the teleprinter on their way to the engine.
“No number on there either?” Gray queried, boarding the appliance.
Charlie shrugged and handed him the details. “Just says ground floor.” He sat back, fastening his jacket. “PDA is two WL’s attending. Us and Whitchurch retained.”
“Shit.” Gray reached into the overhead locker, pulling out copies of the week’s fire inspection reports as the engine roared into the night. Cantilever Court might not be a high-rise, but the pre-determined attendance of two water ladders wasn’t going to be anywhere near enough if the main foyer was alight.
It took less than three minutes for them to arrive at the entrance to the close, only to find a police car blocking their route.
Sergeant Trevor Marshall, from Hampshire Constabulary’s Traffic Division, door-stepped the appliance and leaned into the driver’s window. “Road’s blocked with residents’ motors,” he said. “Ambulances only just made it through, you’ve got no chance. Officers are going door to door trying to get them shifted.”
“Jesus Christ,” the driver shouted. “Boss, we’ve got a going job here. What d’you want me to do?”
Gray stood up and leaned through the front seats to see Cantilever Court, at the end of the close, well ablaze. Fire filled the front door, the building’s only means of escape. They’d need platforms at the first-floor windows to get any remaining residents out. And there was no time to waste running hoses from here. “Move your car, Trev. We’re going in.”
“But –”
“Now!”
The driver gunned the engine and Textbook Trevor ran to his car, reversing out of the way.
As the fire engine scraped through, leaving a trail of broken mirrors and buckled wings in its wake, Gray radioed Control, booking-in their attendance as first appliance on scene and requesting three additional appliances, including platforms.
The crew began unravelling and coupling hoses immediately.
A man stumbled from the burning building and into the street as Gray leapt from the wagon.
The police incident co-ordinator was easy to locate. “Where’s he just come from?” she shouted at the ambulance crew, rushing to the escapee’s aid. “I need the flat number, asap!”
Gray touched her arm and she started. “Watch Manager Davies. Winchester.”
“Thank God,” she said, holding out a roughly made sketch of the building. “We’ve got a four on four, two front two back on each level. Central staircase –”
“I’ve got layout plans,” Gray said, thrusting them into her hands. “One elderly resident per flat. A multiple occupancy query on Flat 7: first floor, back of building, east side. Who’s accounted for?”
She marked off the entire west side of the building, both levels. Flats 3, 4, 5 and 6 were clear. On the east side, the first floor resident of Flat 8 was confirmed as visiting her daughter in Brighton. The resident of ground floor Flat 2 was believed to be at the local community hall, playing bingo – an officer had been sent to check, they were awaiting confirmation.
That left only Mrs Reynolds on the ground floor in Flat 1, and above her to the back of the building, an unknown quantity in Flat 7.
The police officer’s radio crackled. She tilted her head to listen over the noise and looked up at Gray. “He’s from Flat 7,” she said, pointing to the coughing man being helped into an ambulance. “He’s foreign, Albanian they think. And pissed. I’ll get a translator on the line but I don’t think he’ll be much help.”
Gray assembled his crew and relayed the information as further appliances arrived on site, along with the Incident Commander.
With no idea where the fire started, or how many people were trapped, they formulated a plan. The IC decreed Gray’s crew, being familiar with the building and occupants, would be best placed inside.
Gray, and Charlie Riggs, designated ‘Red Team 1’, were taking a water line up the stairs and into Flat 7. When the hydraulic platform arrived, it would be established to the external east side elevation where the first-floor flat’s largest window was situated. ‘Red Team 2’ were taking the front door into Mrs Reynolds’ flat, her ground floor bedroom window the recommended extraction route. Once inside the flats, both teams would undertake a right-hand search pattern, entering the bedroom first.
Firefighting would not commence on the ground floor until Red Team 1 were clear. Due to the dangers of rising steam, only cooling would take place below them. No firefighter wanted to cook in
side their own suit.
The four of them donned their breathing apparatus, went under air, and ventured into the burning building.
Inside the communal foyer, the heat was intense. Flames roared up the eastern wall and rolled across the concrete ceiling, reaching up through the stairwell towards the roof.
As Charlie and Gray pulse-sprayed their way up the stairs, cooling the combustible gases, Gray cautiously glanced back at Red Team 2, smashing their way through a wall of fire to get to Mrs Reynolds. As they disappeared into the dark foggy void of her flat, flames crept in behind them.
The first-floor landing was dense with smoke, but the heat seemed to abate towards the back of the building. Fire changed quickly, Gray was taking no chances. He continued pulsing the jets, cooling the air as Charlie and his axe made light work of Flat 7’s front door.
“What the fuck?” Charlie murmured.
Gray angled his torch into the blackened flat. There was no ‘right’ to follow. Under cover of thick smoke stood a single narrow hallway, and a host of mortice-locked doors. He counted three on each side and one at the end. The thermal imaging camera revealed no signs of fire, but with all the unexpected walls there was no sign of anything else either.
An alert came through the radio to advise that the flat directly below them had been breached, and a third BA team were committed and actively fighting fire, attempting to keep steam minimal. Gray replied with what he and Charlie were facing, adding that the extra exertion would deplete their air faster than anticipated. A fourth BA team should be readied for their whistle.
He angled the TIC down at the floor, no hot spots showing yet. They’d take the left doors first; whatever space lay beyond them would have no windows – if people were there, they’d have fewer options and even less time.
Charlie took his axe to the first door as Gray took the hose, continually pulse-cooling to prevent flashovers.
“Shit. It’s getting hot in here,” Charlie said, shaking the perspiration from his brow. “They’re trying to boil us in the bag, bro.”
