by Bo Brennan
“That’s classified,” Doug said, ushering her back inside. “If he contacts you again, call me straight away.”
She sat on Gray’s sofa, waiting for the uniforms to descend. The press wouldn’t be far behind. If her brother was also ‘classified’, the NCA wanted him in witness protection or dead. If the head on his kitchen floor was indicative of their protection prowess, it amounted to the same thing.
Doug Henderson could go fuck himself.
The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London
Colt tried hard to ignore the wastepaper bin peeking into his peripheral vison. His chat with Ryan Reynolds had provided limited answers, which raised unlimited questions. He twisted in his chair, trying to block Reynolds from his mind as he focused on the task in hand.
As usual, Clorindar Hussein’s work was exceptional. Her report thorough. She and Maggie had made first contact with Councillor Cooper’s victims. All three were shocked, ashamed and dismayed by the visit, but ultimately relieved to know their abuser was behind bars – for now – his identity undisclosed.
Things were far from over. The real work was about to begin.
These girls needed preparing for trial. Families had to be informed. Support services leveraged into place.
Colt reached the end of the report and looked up. “You haven’t mentioned the school counsellor in here.”
“She left, sir,” Clorindar said. “Couldn’t cope with the workload. The school won’t be replacing her either, it’s not in the budget. I’ve been waiting for someone from Children’s Services to phone me back, but they’re stretched to their limit as more and more victims come forward from the on-street grooming gangs.”
“We’ve got the A to Z of alleged support services specifically sticking their beaks into the Asian on-street grooming case, and you can’t get one to come out for the online victims of a fascist?” he said incredulously.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve tried them all. They’re all citing the same – lack of funding, resources, and time.”
Colt rested an elbow on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. They could cite whatever they wanted, but the truth wasn’t lack of funding or resources or time – it was a lack of soundbites for increasingly media-savvy agencies. At the end of the day Cooper was just another white man, the majority, the status quo. When it came to the trial, they’d be interested then. There’d be a feeding frenzy as the maggot wriggled on the hook. Lessons to be learned. Soundbites to spout. Funding to be demanded, fat cats guzzling cream. Their bullshit was crippling his unit, anchoring them below sea level in a fast-rising tide of salacious headlines, as victims were left to flounder without life buoys. Drowning.
No one’s trying to drown me.
The wastepaper bin was there again; taunting him with the trashy Daily Herald article Commander Hussein had thrown in his face. In a deal with the devil, a desperate Ryan Reynolds had given up the source, the surviving siblings’ names. Colt was still waiting for the alleged love-nest address. Had even run the names past his personal property manager in the hope of getting it before Reynolds sobered up. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t rent property owned by Colt.
He lashed out with his foot, kicking the bin from view. It spun across his office, spewing its contents at Clorindar’s feet.
“Sir,” she ventured, dumping the newspaper back into its rightful place. “We all know it’s not true.”
Colt grimaced. He wasn’t worried about what people thought, he was worried about who was trying to set him up and why, but more importantly what would happen to his unit if they succeeded. “This is good,” he said, holding up her report. “Have Children’s Services got your mobile number?” When she nodded, he said, “Then get yourself off home.”
“One other thing,” she said, standing. “I saw Kylie Jones at the school today.”
Had to be a good sign, Colt thought. A tiny white light in an otherwise dark day. “How was she?”
“Her usual venomous self. She spat at me.”
Colt shook his head. “Best go home and get disinfected then.”
Clorindar smiled. “Already took the liberty of using the stuff you keep in Maggie’s car. It’s good.”
“I’ll get you some,” Colt said. “I get spat on a lot lately.”
“Guv, you gotta see this,” Maggie shouted through his open office door. “A head’s turned up in Portsmouth.”
Colt pushed away from his desk and hurried into the main unit. Those still working ceased, staring up at the wall-mounted TV screen as the evening news played out.
“It’s got to be related to the hand and foot you and the commander got,” Nathan said, gathering the bottoms of his trousers into ugly cycle clips.
“Sharp by name, sharp by nature,” Maggie murmured.
Colt perched on the edge of her desk. “Turn it up.”
As the news camera zoomed in on a forensics officer carrying a white polystyrene box out of a property’s front door, Colt’s eyes narrowed. He recognised that street, that house, that bike in the forecourt, but it didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t be.
It was.
His heart skipped a beat as a stony-faced India emerged alongside Doug Henderson, and climbed into the passenger seat of his car.
“What the hell –” Maggie started, but Colt was already out the door.
Chapter 58
Park Gate, Southampton
India pounded her fist against her own houseboat door when she found it bolted. “It’s me. Open up.” What the hell was taking him so long? Panic reared its head when she remembered the YouTube video, amassing voyeuristic views by the second. “Gray. Gray!”
He opened the door smiling. “Hey,” he said, casual as you like, not a worry in the world.
India didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him, so she settled for the middle ground and patted him on the shoulder instead. “You’ve got blood on your shirt,” she said, hoping he’d look and give himself up.
He didn’t. Didn’t even flinch. “I’ve got a severed head on my kitchen floor.”
“Way to meet the in-laws, huh?”
Gray frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t make me punch you in the shoulder, Gray. Taking a knife for the woman is a big step up from taking her flowers in the hospital. I know you got stabbed saving Shayla at the church, and I know you took her back to yours. So where is she now? Is she here?”
Gray shook his head and looked away. “No. She stayed the night at mine, but when I woke up she was gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I wish I knew,” he said. “If I did, I’d go get her.”
India’s eyes widened. “Have you been on the crack pipe or something?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. She’s tangled up in some proper dodgy shit, Gray. The political plod are all over this like scabies. I’ve had one stuck to me like a sodding limpet, looking for you two.”
“She hasn’t done anything wrong,” he gritted out. “Neither have I.”
“Good luck telling the nutter from the National Crime Agency that, when he catches up with you. He’s got a gun, a bad attitude, and he knows where you live and work.”
“Well, I’m not at work right now, am I. And I can’t go home so thought I’d hang here for a couple of days, lay low till things die down.”
India stared at him, wondering if Scarface’s knife had penetrated his crash helmet and skewered his last ounce of sense. “My address is on file. You’re not safe here!”
“Are you kidding. This place is like Fort Knox. There’s cameras everywhere.”
India jerked her head. “What?”
Gray bit his lip. “I’ll be safe here,” he said matter-of-factly.
Cameras? India’s eyes flitted around the room, her gaze sharpening on Gray’s phone. “I thought I told you to dismantle that.” She snatched it from the coffee table and stormed outside.
“It’s off,” he said, hot on her heels. “I did
what your text said – called the police and turned it off.”
“I said dismantle. Off isn’t always off with these things. Some of them still ping signals to the masts, meaning they can locate you. I’ve got a burner you can borrow.” India drew back her arm and pitched it as far as she could into darkness. It landed in the river with a plop.
Gray leaned over the deck as if contemplating going in after it. “All my contacts and numbers are in there!”
India glared at him. “Do you want to stay alive, or do you want to phone a friend? This isn’t a fucking gameshow, Gray. A cuddly toy doesn’t arrive next. You got a head, Colt got a foot, and his boss got a hand. There’s no prizes for guessing who they belonged to. If you need a clue, we both met her on the riverbank in Bar End.”
Gray swallowed hard. “Why did Colt and his boss get bits of her sister?”
“Because of the girl,” a tiny voice said.
Gray sucked in a sharp breath.
India turned, and there she was. Shayla bloody Begum. Right under her nose. Under her own fucking roof! She eyed the floral dungarees and turned stunned eyes on Gray. “You involved Terri.”
He set his jaw, not an ounce of shame. “I had to. She was the only person I could trust. You were in exams, and Colt was too far away.”
India stared at him in disbelief. “Terri’s got kids, for fuck’s sake.”
“Colt?” Shayla murmured, clinging to the selfish bastard’s arm, gazing up at him like he was God.
“Colt’s her boyfriend. He lives over there.” Gray lifted his chin and peered across the cavernous hole between the houseboats. “Is that him?”
India followed his gaze to the treeline. High headlights flickered through the branches as Colt’s Range Rover descended the dirt track. “Yep,” she said. “He’s gonna be made up to see you two.”
“No, no, no,” Shayla cried, tugging on Gray’s arm.
“It’s all right,” Gray soothed. “He’ll help.”
She cowered behind him, her face filled with terror. “Becky Adams.”
India’s eyes darted between them. “Who’s Becky Adams?”
Gray grimaced and shook his head, purporting not to know.
A bare faced liar, India couldn’t trust a word he said anymore. The name had left Shayla’s lips, so it was Shayla she grabbed. “Who is she? Tell me who she is!”
“Ask your boyfriend!”
Shayla struggled free and ran inside. Gray followed.
Colt locked up his car as India locked up her houseboat.
She hurried down the steps, skirting the cavernous hole to greet him.
He’d never been so happy to be home. “Am I glad to see you,” he said, pulling her into a bone-crushing embrace. “I tried phoning, but kept getting voicemail.”
With a wince, she wriggled until he loosened his grip. “I couldn’t talk; I was with the NCA psycho.”
Colt smiled, glad she remained immune to Doug’s superhero charm. He obviously hadn’t told her about the mosque. “Saw it on the news,” he said. “Drove like a twat to get back. Probably lost my licence on the M25.”
She frowned up at him. “Didn’t phone Henderson, did you?”
“Course not. Figured that’s why you weren’t answering.” It was tough. His thumb had hovered over Doug’s details for most of the frantic journey home, but Colt knew she wouldn’t thank him for it. The same couldn’t be said for her brother. His phone was out of service. Safe housed. “How’s Gray?”
“Shocked.”
“I bet,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist and leading her inside. “Any idea why he got the head?”
India shrugged and settled at his breakfast bar where her files and computer remained untouched. “Why’d you get the foot?”
“Between the extremists and supremacists I haven’t made many friends lately. Figured it was some sick fuck’s way of making a complaint,” he said, handing her a glass of wine. “But now I’m not so sure.”
“They should send a letter like everyone else.”
“They should.” With a chuckle, Colt pulled up a stool beside her and slid his hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “What’s this?” he said, pulling out her toothbrush.
“I’m moving in.”
“Great.” Her place would make one hell of a walk-in wardrobe.
“Temporarily, of course.”
“Of course.” He’d work to change that, obviously.
India stared at him as she sipped her wine. “Why aren’t you so sure anymore?”
For a second Colt was caught off guard, thinking she meant them, until she gestured to the stuff on his breakfast bar where all the answers lay. Dots on masses of paper that needed to be connected.
And then he saw it.
On her notepad was scrawled: PRIEST, HEADBOURNE WORTHY. NAZREEM SINDER???
“What’s this?”
India put down her glass and picked up the pad, eyes retracing the note. “Shayla Begum went to his church. I think he knew her sister. I was going to talk to him.”
“You can’t,” Colt said. “He’s dead.”
“Since when?”
Colt took a deep breath, steeling himself to tell all that he’d kept from her. “Since yesterday. When Doug shot him in the face outside the mosque.”
“Henderson. I fucking knew he couldn’t be trusted,” she spat, slamming the pad down on the side. “He pulled his party piece at Gray’s. Why didn’t you –”
“India, Doug thought he was saving my life. The priest was coming for me.”
Her mouth gaped and her eyes widened as her certainty fell away. “Why?”
Colt took her hands in his. “There was a story in the Daily Herald –”
“What story?”
“It doesn’t matter . . .”
“It matters.” India pulled away and shakily opened her laptop.
Colt buried his face in his hands as she immersed herself in The Daily Herald website, reading the bullshit about his imaginary love-nest, and the resulting mess outside the mosque. “What matters is that Shayla Begum gave the original story to The Herald, and the priest came at me because of it.”
“She didn’t give them any story.” Her eyes flashed from the computer screen to Colt. “The second article doesn’t say where the priest is from. How do you know it’s the Worthys? Have you spoken to Firman?”
Not today. Colt shook his head. Inside the force, it was as though the shooting had never happened. Henderson was still armed and on active duty, and Colt hadn’t been statemented nor debriefed. Both were unheard of. “Ryan Reynolds told me. He thinks it’s a set up.”
“Reynolds thinks?” She slammed the laptop lid shut. “The shitbag wrote it, he should know.”
“He didn’t write it, his junior did. Reynolds is a mess. He’s just lost his mother.”
India rolled her eyes. “Boo-hoo. My heart bleeds.”
“It should. Mrs Reynolds died in the fire at Cantilever Court.”
India almost fell off her stool. “No way.”
“Yes way. Ryan’s going to give me the story source documents in exchange for information about the fire. If the ‘surviving sister’ was Shayla Begum, they’ll confirm it.”
“It wasn’t,” India murmured, picking up her glass. “If Reynolds’ mother died at Cantilever Court, Sangrin should be keeping him updated on the arson investigation. All he has to do is phone Winchester.”
“He’s tried. Nobody’s talking.” Colt topped up her glass. “Why are you so sure it wasn’t Begum who gave them the story?”
India chewed at her cheek, staring into her glass.
Colt stared at India, waiting her out.
She caved.
“Because she’s been hiding at Gray’s since Monday. Seems soppy bollocks has developed a soft spot for her.”
An interesting development, Colt raised a brow. “At least we know what he’s been poking to get a head in the post.”
“I doubt it. If her genitals are as mutilated as her si
ster’s, she’s been parcelled up to a pinprick down there.” India grimaced and twisted her bottom lip. “Feels like we’re pawns in someone else’s game.”
No shit. After his conversation with Ryan Reynolds, Colt was inclined to agree. Between them they hadn’t pulled enough threads to tie a hangman’s knot, yet it was clear a noose was tightening somewhere. “Then it’s time we made some moves of our own,” he said, picking up his car keys and phone. “Did Doug give you the safe house location?”
She tentatively shook her head. “He doesn’t know it.”
Colt tutted and scrolled through his contacts. “Of course he knows it.”
“He doesn’t.” India closed her hand over his phone. “I’ll tell you where they are once you’ve told me about Becky Adams.”
Colt’s brows bunched. “Becky? She’s nothing to do with me.”
“Tell me who she is.”
He let out a mirthless chuckle at her accusatory tone. “An hour ago you stuck your toothbrush in my pot, and now you don’t trust me?”
“I do. Shayla Begum doesn’t.”
As the penny dropped, Colt stood up and moved to the window, staring across the abyss. She wasn’t using her place as a walk-in wardrobe, she was using it as a safe house. And just plain using him in the process.
With a shake of his head, he turned back to India. “When we don’t work together, babe, we don’t work at all.”
Chapter 59
“Becky was just a kid. A knocked-up kid. She went missing from a hostel in Haringey. A week later police divers fished her body out of the Thames. Her killer was never found.”
India watched him as he buttoned up his jeans. His discomfort at the casual attire as evident as his discomfort with the conversation. “What happened to her baby?”
Colt shook his head and turned away, hanging his suit for dry cleaning. “Becky was stabbed in the abdomen so many times, there were rumours her killer tried to cut the baby out.”
