by Bo Brennan
India cast her eyes across the piles of paperwork on the counter. “It’s hard to believe all this could come from Becky’s murder, and still no one’s been charged with it. So much for forced marriages, eh?”
Colt cracked his knuckles. “Two Patel sisters, two Singh brothers. Maybe that’s the marriages they were fleeing. Maybe Becky Adams is the reason why. Two professional women wouldn’t want to get stuck with two murderers, terrorist or otherwise.”
“Two degrees of separation,” India murmured, sifting through her documents and paperwork. “It doesn’t make sense to flee to the middle ground, especially not when there’s an unsung Singh right on the doorstep.” She handed Colt a copy of a driver’s licence. “Ashvindar Singh lives in Winchester.”
The Asian equivalent of Smith, Singh was a common name. Colt saw the similarities between the photographic ID and the London imam immediately. They were definitely brothers. “Where did you come across him?”
“He’s the cabbie who took Priti Patel from the Royal South Hants to Headbourne Worthy. Twitchy as fuck, keeps a machete behind his front door.”
“That blows the marriage theory out of the water. She wouldn’t have got in his cab if she knew him,” Colt said. “Wasn’t her sister murdered with a machete?”
“Yeah. But he had an alibi for . . . fuck.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t asking about Shareen, the NCA swiped the case. I was asking him where he dropped Priti after she smacked Smithy and legged it. Gray followed the cab from the Royal South Hants to Headbourne Worthy. Ashvindar Singh was on the phone the entire time.”
“Alerting his brother, Ahmed,” Colt said, pointing at Scarface’s picture.
“Who stabbed Gray in the churchyard and pinpointed the priest.”
“The Singh brothers didn’t kill the priest, India.”
“No, Dickwad Doug did, outside the other brother’s mosque. And their mate Malik pissed the priest off enough to put him there in the first place. He was going to beat you to death with a bible.”
“It was a newspaper.”
“Whatever. It was extreme.”
Colt raised a brow. “Not if the man just lost the love of his life.”
India frowned. “He was a priest.”
“He was still a man.”
“Oh God.” She rested her head on the counter. “Your A-level in Catholic guilt is rubbing off on me. It makes sense. I hadn’t even thought of him. I had the mysterious Malik pegged as Shareen’s missing lover.”
“Malik’s shagging Melody Fletcher,” Colt said. “For what it’s worth, I think Malik’s the Home Office’s inside man.”
India lifted her head. “But he sold the story about your imaginary love-nest to The Daily Herald. That would mean one of ours set you up and got the priest killed.”
“Why’d you look so surprised?” Colt said. “Malik got Melody Fletcher off the hook, and you off the job. You were right, by the way. She did turn over the Central Bank.”
“Huh, and they say crime doesn’t pay. I wonder if the Security Service knows him and his whore have a sideline selling bullshit. I bet it was her under that burka.”
Colt reeled at the possibility. Even he hadn’t thought of that.
“So, if they know it wasn’t Gray, who’s in the frame for Scarface?” India’s eyes narrowed. “He was beaten to death. They’re looking for a weapon. Where’s your knuckleduster?”
“They know it wasn’t me,” Colt said. “The Home Secretary stripped me to my birthday suit.”
India stood up, patting down his pockets. “Where is it?”
Colt grabbed her hands. “I don’t know.”
Her face paled. “We have to find it. When did you last see it?”
It will be found, Colt thought. But not by him and India. “I had it when we went out last night. I haven’t seen it since.” He caught her as her knees buckled. “Listen to me. It’s gonna be fine.”
“How is it going to be fine, Colt? They’re setting you up for murder! We have to get them first.”
“We have to stay away,” Colt said, pulling her onto his lap. “The Home Office is mopping up.”
“Covering up, more like. They’ve invented leverage, Colt. You all go down for murder or none of you do. This will be listed as another ‘foiled terrorist plot’ with no fucking detail and no justice for the dead.”
“Babe, listen to me. I’ve got skin in the game and irons in the fire, that’s not going to happen.”
“Damn right it’s not,” she said, leaping from his lap.
Colt blocked her at the front door. “Where are you going?”
“Over there to beat the truth out of Priti Patel.”
“Be prepared to beat her to death then, because she won’t tell you anything.” Colt stepped aside. “Go on. Go do their job for them. When you’re done, you can post her to them in bits.”
India kicked the door, rested back against it, and then slid to the floor with her head in her hands. Colt sat down beside her. “I have a plan that will get us all out of this in one piece,” he said.
Chapter 67
Sunday, 18th March
London
Colt took the train to Waterloo. Paid cash for his ticket. He didn’t want anyone who was keeping tabs on him to know he was on the move. If he used his car or his card, they’d know.
Adamant as he was to keep his number plate off the camera systems, he wanted this transaction on it. Carrying Gray’s heavy holdall, he casually strolled through the crowded station.
Ryan Reynolds’ hands shook as Colt closed in on the concourse bistro table. “Afternoon, chief. You got time to grab a beer?” he asked.
Colt would’ve loved a beer, but not here. Not now. And not with him. “No, neither have you,” he said, dropping the holdall at his feet and summoning the barista. “It’s time to get your shit together.”
Instead of bringing an order pad, the pretty barista brought Colt’s coffee with a smile. “You drink here too often,” Ryan said.
“Maybe I just tip better than you.” Colt winked at the barista as he placed a fifty and Ryan’s empty mug on her tray. “Bring him another cold tea and a receipt, please. Keep the change.”
“The Met are paying you way too much,” Ryan said.
“Believe me, it’s not nearly enough.”
Colt thanked the barista when she returned with a milky iced tea and handed him the receipt. Checking the date and time stamp, he looked up to the cameras surrounding them, pulled a pen from his pocket and autographed the back. “You’ll need that. Keep it safe,” he said, making an exaggerated display of pressing it into Ryan’s hand. “You got my information?”
“Of course.” Ryan patted his satchel, face full of confusion as he pocketed the receipt. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but please . . . my mum?”
Colt pushed the bulging bag towards him with his foot. “In there.”
Ryan recoiled in his seat. “I wanted information on the fire, not her fucking body. What is it?”
“All your Christmas’s, birthday’s, and wet dreams come at once.” Colt rested his elbows on the table, staring at the reporter. “The scoop of a lifetime, Ryan.”
Ryan wet his lips and moved uneasily for the zip. “Can I?”
“Be my guest.” Colt watched as he peered inside, his face lighting up at the sight of investigation files. “You’ll find a summary in the envelope. Pull it out.”
Ryan warily glanced around. “Here?”
“Uh-huh.” Colt looked up at the cameras and Ryan’s eyes followed.
“You want me to smile, chief?”
“Can’t hurt,” Colt said.
Ryan lifted his head, baring his teeth for the security camera footage. “Something sure as hell can if we’re doing this in public.” He pulled the summary from the envelope and the false smile slipped away as he read. India hadn’t pulled any punches in its preparation. “Jesus Christ,” he said, lifting his eyes to Colt’s. “My mum was murdered by terrorists.�
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“Like I say, they don’t pay me nearly enough.” He held out his hand. “The address, please.”
Ryan dipped into his satchel and placed a folded piece of paper in his palm. Colt flipped it open and frowned. “You sure this is right?”
“Double checked with Junior. That’s the apartment where he interviewed Shayla Begum. Got the Land Registry document too if you want it.” Colt numbly shook his head. He knew who owned it. He did. Knew who fucking rented it too. “Junior said Malik was there, but he didn’t show his face. Told him to leave the cash on the bed when he was finished.”
I bet he fucking did. Colt rose along with his blood pressure. “There’s a bigger story here than I thought, Ryan. Stay safe. Stay sober. And make your mother proud.”
Colt stormed along The Embankment and up the apartment complex stairwell, only pausing for breath when he reached the front door. Once his city shag pad, he’d had some interesting times here pre-India. Times he didn’t miss one bit.
Keeping clear of the spyhole, he knocked and waited. His temper rising with every passing second. He knocked again and pressed his ear to the wood. Nothing. Commanding top dollar, the complex was well built, and almost impossible to hear noise from within. Colt knew his tenant wasn’t a religious man, no church or mosque to grace, so he pulled out his phone and lifted the letterbox…
That annoying fucking ringtone sounded from inside.
The phone call warning enough, Colt didn’t knock again. Taking a step back, he aimed for the lock, and repeatedly kicked until the door split away from the frame.
In the lounge, in his underpants, Doug Henderson went for his gun.
“You want to have a pop at me too?” Colt filled the decimated doorway, eyeballing his traitorous colleague as his hand hovered over the holster on the side table. “Think you can reach that before I reach you?”
Not fancying his chances, Doug Henderson raised his hands and took a step back. “Look, I’m sorry, all right.”
Colt took a step towards him. “Is that it? That all you’ve got to say?”
“It was nothing personal, it was work. I swear to you, brother,” he said, patting the British Bulldog and Union Jack, emblazoned across his heart. “I didn’t know Kane was yours. I’m sorry I got a bit rough with her. But you gotta admit, she’s a serious fucking handful.” Doug extended his hand in full and final apology. “Let’s not fall out over a woman.”
All thoughts of Malik and Melody were displaced by images of India. Cuts on her face. Bruises on her body. Hand prints on her arms. And then all Colt saw was red.
He slugged him with a right hook that knocked him clean off his feet and sent him sprawling across the sofa. Before Doug had a chance to get up, Colt was on him, trading punches as they tumbled to the floor taking the side table and lamp with them in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, Colt pummelled him.
He didn’t see the blood. He didn’t hear the screaming. He didn’t feel the plaster dust that rained down from the ceiling. But his subconscious registered the gunshot. His senses flooded in as adrenaline fled his system, leaving behind an acute awareness of his surroundings that he didn’t want to face.
Maggie stood in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in a black silk sheet, Doug’s discharged Glock in her hand. “Stop it,” she cried. “He didn’t know!”
Colt didn’t care. Bone weary, he rolled onto his back and stared at the bullet hole in his ceiling. Thank fuck it was a penthouse.
Beside him, Doug rolled to his side and spat blood and teeth on his carpet. “This make us even?”
“We’ll never be even,” Colt said. “Touch her again and I’ll kill you.”
“Fair enough.”
Colt stood up as Maggie brought ice and helped Doug to a seated position. “Don’t mother him, Mags. He sold that story to The Daily Herald.”
Doug spluttered a laugh and a fine mist of blood sprayed Colt’s shoes. “He fucking didn’t.”
“Goes by the name of Malik when he’s really being a cunt or shagging pole dancers, Mags.”
Doug frowned as Maggie deserted him. “He fucking doesn’t,” he said, pressing the ice to his jaw as he hauled his arse off the floor. “Who’s put that shit in your head?”
“It ends now,” Colt said. “You stay the fuck away from me and mine.”
“She included in that?” He looked past Colt to where a hastily dressed Maggie collected up her things. “Don’t go, babe. He’s got it wrong. Stay, we’ll straighten this out.”
Maggie wiped her eyes and went to him, lifting the icepack to tenderly check his wounds. “Are you sure about this, guv? He really didn’t know about you and India until I told him.”
Colt stared at her in disbelief. She’d just got rid of one arsehole, now she was falling for another one. A worse one. An arsehole with a gun, no conscience, and no compunction. She’d made her choice. Now Colt made his. They were no longer friends, strictly colleagues. “Tell Clorindar I’ll pick her up at Southampton Station at ten tomorrow,” he said, and turned his glare on Doug. “I want you out of here. Today.”
Chapter 68
Park Gate, Hampshire
India watched the cab pull away. It had sat outside for a good five minutes with Colt sitting stationary in the back. Now, in no hurry to come inside, he sat on the deck, brooding.
He’d been gone for hours. Gone all day. Leaving in light, returning in darkness. Minus the holdall. What he’d done went against the grain, against everything he stood for. A public pact with the press, a deadly deal with the devil. India knew sacrificing his principles to keep them all safe would hurt him.
But she had news that would hopefully lift his spirits. She stepped out to join him, pulling up a chair as he stared across the dark still water. “I spoke to Nisha Fisher. She’s picking Priti up at midday tomorrow.”
“Won’t be here,” he murmured. “Southampton mosque meeting.”
“I’m trying to find a way not to be here myself. Got a feeling there’s gonna be tears. Gray’s maudlin. Looks like the world’s about to end.”
“Maybe it is.”
In the darkness, India grimaced and rested her hand on Colt’s thigh. “I know it’s not the result you wanted, but the truth will come out.”
“Yes, it will.”
“There’s only so much the Home Office can cover-up in the ‘interests of national security.’ You’ve still got the grooming gang on trial, and with a little persuasion, Priti might testify against her parents to secure the UK’s first female genital mutilation conviction.” Her fingers traced the inside of his thigh. “It’s cold. Wanna come inside and cover-up with me?”
“Not really,” he said, picking up her hand and placing it in her lap.
India reeled at the rebuff. Whatever their ill – happy, sad, mellow, angry – sex was their medicine. “Want to talk to me in sentences longer than three words?”
“I found Malik.”
Three words, but meaningful ones. India took it as a good start. “I knew you wouldn’t leave it there,” she said. “It’s –”
“It’s Doug Henderson.”
“What?” India leaned so far forward in her chair she almost fell off it. “That takes ‘under cover’ to a whole new level. He’s fucking Melody –”
“He’s fucking Maggie.”
“Maggie Bevan? I might not like the woman, but I don’t get –”
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Colt said. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about Doug Henderson?”
India frowned. “I did. I told you he was a dick.”
“You didn’t tell me he was the dick who put his hands on you, India. Beat you black and blue. Did he –”
“No.” She swallowed hard. Could feel turmoil roiling beneath his calm surface. “It was a scrap, nothing more. You had a lot on your plate already, and Doug was your mate. I didn’t want you to do something stupid.”
In the darkness, she heard him crack his knuckles
as he stood up and went silently inside. India followed him into the kitchen, staring at his back as he poured himself a drink. “There’s a lot of things I wish I’d told you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He downed his drink and undid his coat. “It’s too late to apologise.”
“Why? What have you done?”
When he turned around, India gasped. “Something stupid,” he said.
Chapter 69
Monday, 19th March
Southampton
“Blimey, sir.” DC Clorindar Hussein’s eyes widened as she climbed into Colt’s passenger seat. “Looks like you had a rough weekend.”
Colt grimaced. “Rugby.”
“Don’t play for the same team as Officer Henderson, do you, sir?”
“No, Clorindar. I don’t.”
“He’s looking pretty rough this morning too.”
Colt swivelled in his seat. “You’ve seen Doug Henderson?”
Clorindar nodded as she fastened her seat belt. “He was in the unit when I left, sir, talking to DI Bevan. Got himself a broken jaw and a neck brace.”
Colt fixed his eyes on the road ahead, grinding the gears in temper. “You won’t be seeing him in the unit again.”
“You’ll hear no complaint from me, sir.”
“You don’t like him?” That was news.
“I’ve met his type before, sir.”
“What type?”
“The Councillor Cooper type,” she said. “For all his flaws, at least Cooper doesn’t hide his hate. I might be dog poo on his shoe, but at least I know where I stand with him.”
“Has Doug said something to you, Clorindar?”
“No. It’s just . . . it’s hard to explain, sir.”
“Try,” Colt said, crunching the gears again. If he didn’t relax, the Range Rover would need a gearbox overhaul on its first service.
Clorindar cleared her throat. “I think it’s a woman thing, sir. Some men undress you with their eyes,” she said. “Others do . . . other things.”
