Darke

by Matt Hilton

  His crass humour broke the moment. Kerry laughed, shook her head, and before he could press her for her opinion on the spirit world, she got out the car. Korba mirrored her, but took a moment to unhitch his trousers from his backside before shutting the door. ‘I’m telling you, that was a close call,’ he added for effect.

  Kerry didn’t react. She put on her professional face and headed for the front path. To her right, she could see the tops of the quartet of towers, the one from which Swain had fallen two nights ago looming over the adjacent rooftops. Weren’t ghosts supposed to haunt the location where they died? Not in her experience. When she glanced up at his house, she avoided the bedroom window, in case she spotted Swain again. She averted her face as she strode to the front door and rapped on it officiously. A temporary repair had been made to the door, but it couldn’t hide a delve left in it by the battering ram, or the twisted aspect of the uppermost hinge.

  Korba stayed a pace behind her, watching the living room window. He spotted fingertips widening a gap in the venetian blinds, as somebody checked them out. He held up his warrant card. From within there came muffled curses.

  Kerry and Korba exchanged glances.

  It took the best part of a minute, and another knock from Kerry before Hettie answered. ‘You’ll have to use the back door; this one won’t open. You can blame the Old Bill.’

  They followed a path between the house and a garden shed, to a gate that had been heightened to almost seven feet tall by the addition of extra wire. Many criminals made fortresses of their homes. Often it was to slow down the police, but also as defence against other criminals. Yet a bolt could be slipped from their side and the gate opened. More likely the gate had been extended to stop the collie dog roaming. Korba secured the gate behind him. As they walked around to the back, there was evidence of where the search team had dug holes in the flower borders around a neatly trimmed lawn. A yellow Frisbee and a red nylon bone looked incongruous on the verdant grass. Hettie stepped out the back door to meet them. A cigarette jutted from her right hand, unlit. She sparked up a lighter and touched it to the end of her ciggie. She stood, making no invitation to her home.

  There were smudges of fatigue beneath Hettie’s eyes, but otherwise she looked unaffected by her boyfriend’s recent passing. But that was based on her good looks alone. She was fidgety, and when she drew on the cigarette it was as if it were an oxygen pipe and she had been submerged in the deepest of oceans.

  ‘You know you’re the last person I want to see?’ She aimed the glowing end of her cigarette at Kerry. ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘I’ve got a few more questions for you.’

  ‘Isn’t the idea of police bail was so I have to return at a specific time and place to answer more questions? This is verging on harassment.’

  ‘These might be questions you don’t want to answer on tape.’ Kerry nodded past her towards the kitchen. ‘Visitors, Hettie?’

  Hettie was reluctant to say.

  ‘Look, we heard you talking to somebody when we knocked, and we know that’s Zane McManus’s car out the front. Is he here or not?’

  ‘What do you want Zane for?’

  ‘I don’t. But you might not want him overhearing us.’

  Hettie took another long drag on her cigarette. ‘Zane called round to offer his condolences, yeah? Nothing else. You know he’s my little cousin, don’t you?’

  The family connection had been lost on Kerry. But it made sense. Many criminal syndicates had extended families at their core. ‘I’m not interested in Zane,’ said Kerry. Not unless I learn otherwise. ‘How about you and I have a word out here, and DS Korba can go in and keep Zane busy?’

  ‘Fuck that.’ Hettie flicked her cigarette stump onto the path and left it smouldering. ‘Too many nosey neighbours to have a private conversation out here.’ Without warning, she turned, leaned inside the house and hollered. ‘Zane! Hey, Zane? Get your skinny arse out here.’

  Zane had been lurking just out of sight, listening to their conversation. He was a tall, skinny youth with sticky out ears perfect for eavesdropping. As he appeared in the kitchen doorway, he made a show of innocence, eyes wide and mouth poised in question. ‘Whassup, Hettie?’

  ‘Do me a favour,’ she said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. ‘Bring Tyke out on the back and throw his toys for him, will ya?’

  ‘Yeah, right, will do…’ Zane disappeared a few seconds, then came out leading the collie. It regarded the police with the same tentative looks as Zane did as he coaxed the dog onto the lawn.

  ‘Right,’ said Hettie. ‘You two had better come in then.’

  Korba pointed at the pack of cigarettes poking out of her jeans pocket. ‘Can you spare one of those fags?’

  ‘What, now I’ve to keep you fuckers supplied with ciggies?’

  ‘Not unless you have any more cannabis lying around?’ Korba grinned. ‘I’m happy to chill.’

  Hettie’s nostrils flared a few times as she thought things over. She wasn’t an idiot. She pulled out the pack, extended it to Korba and he slid out a cigarette. ‘I bet you want a light now?’

  ‘Would be helpful.’

  She sparked her lighter and he drew in the flame to the cigarette’s tip.

  ‘Efcharistó.’ Korba exhaled blue smoke, and received a bewildered scowl. ‘It’s an expression of thanks, but I bet it’s all Greek to you, eh?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re goin’ on about.’

  ‘I have the same problem with him most of the time,’ Kerry added. It was a clumsy attempt at forming a common bond with Hettie, and earned her a snort of derision.

  She raised her eyebrows at Korba as Hettie went indoors, with a sharp command to, ‘Follow me.’

  17

  Empty cups and mugs were piled in the sink, but otherwise the kitchen was neat. Hettie had entertained visitors besides her cousin Zane that morning: visitors paying their respects to a man who didn’t deserve the sentiment. With Swain gone, it would cause a void in their criminal operation, so arrangements other than which hymns to sing at his funeral were probably discussed.

  ‘Do you want some tea or coffee?’ Hettie flicked on the electric kettle.

  Kerry had taken tea from Mr Ghedi, but that was under different circumstances. She was about to refuse, except there were occasions where accepting a hot cuppa helped to melt the ice. She nodded her thanks. ‘I’ll have a tea, please. Milk, one sugar.’

  Hettie fetched two fresh mugs from a cupboard, and dished tea bags into them. ‘Sit down.’ She aimed a nod at a chair standing kitty-corner to the table.

  ‘We’re alone, right?’ Kerry thought about the face she’d spotted at the bedroom window. A shiver of uncanny dread played the length of her spine and she squirmed her feet.

  Hettie eyed her. ‘I already told you. D’you think I want anyone overhearing us?’

  No more than Kerry did. She felt as if malicious, unseen eyes scrutinised her from the open hallway door. Wanting no unwelcome surprises, she dragged around the chair so the doorway was in view. The light play in the hall remained steady.

  Hettie kept her back to her while she prepped milk and sugar in the mugs and waited for the kettle to boil. Her shoulders were tense. ‘This must feel weird to you, Inspector?’

  Hettie had no idea how weird. ‘I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘Yeah. I know that. But sitting here, drinking tea with me after what happened to Erick? It’s…bloody awkward.’

  It was very awkward, and downright eerie, especially when the subject of their discussion could be lurking in earshot. However she wouldn’t apologise. It was Erick’s fault he fell from the roof, and Erick who’d murdered a mother and child in cold blood.

  ‘I think it’s important we speak straight, Hettie. I sympathise with you as a woman who has also lost somebody important. But I’m not here to offer fake platitudes. It’s horrible for you, but I’ve to also think about a young family murdered by your boyfriend.’

  Stirring furious
ly Hettie added water to the mugs. Kerry was on high alert. Being so direct when she was wielding boiling water wasn’t such a good idea. Even when Hettie set aside the kettle she didn’t relax. Having a mug of scalding tea thrown over her was still a possibility.

  Hettie set down the mugs, slid one to Kerry and took the chair opposite. ‘It’s a shame what happened.’ Her eyes glistened. ‘I still can’t believe Erick would shoot when those poor innocent people were in the way.’

  Kerry stayed silent, busying her hands with spooning out the dripping tea bag. Her silence encouraged Hettie to fill the void.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you. Erick had his faults.’ She laughed bitterly at the inanity of her words. ‘He could be…well, not very nice. But it still shocked me when I realised what he’d done.’

  ‘You accept that Erick was the one responsible for the shooting?’

  Hettie fiddled with her mug of tea, her face downcast. When she looked up, tears made twin tracks down her cheeks. ‘I can’t deny that the evidence points at him. Not after you found that old gun hidden out the back.’ She chewed her lips. ‘I swear to you I’d no idea he’d taken it, or buried it in the garden. I’ve always tried to see the good in Erick, but I’d be a fool to think those were the actions of an innocent man.’

  Kerry had prepared for an argument, a drawn out process of recrimination and denial before Hettie saw sense. But the evidence certainly pointed at Erick: had she wondered about her boyfriend’s involvement even before the cops arrived? Had the anonymous tip-off to the police hotline about the gun’s location come from closer to home than she’d suspected? She didn’t get a sense of that from Hettie.

  ‘Can I ask you a blunt question?’

  Hettie’s shoulders rose and fell.

  ‘If Erick was still alive,’ Kerry prompted, ‘how would you feel about him now?’

  Hettie tipped her mug and downed half its steaming contents. An action designed to give her some thinking time. Mirroring her, Kerry picked up her mug and took a sip.

  ‘If you mean about him killing a kid, I’m not sure it’s something I could forgive him for,’ Hettie admitted.

  Kerry was under no illusion. Hettie was fully aware of Swain’s criminal activities. She had a beautiful home and lifestyle purchased by the misery of others. To most of what he’d got up to she’d turned a blind eye, and now and again possibly raised a glass in celebration. If Funky Ikemba were lying dead in a gutter Hettie wouldn’t give a shit. But in shooting a little girl even she thought Swain had crossed a line.

  ‘So you believe that he should be punished?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You said you couldn’t forgive him, so don’t you think he should be punished for his crime?’

  ‘It’s too late for that now.’

  Kerry shook her head. ‘It isn’t too late for justice. Somebody helped Erick. Somebody was behind the wheel of the car when he shot Nala and Bilan.’ She deliberately named the victims to humanize them, to give them back the life snatched from them during the senseless act. ‘Whoever drove the car is complicit with Erick in the shooting.’

  Out in the garden, Tyke barked with exuberance. Zane laughed and goaded the dog on. Korba laughed too. Hettie’s attention slid to the open door. Kerry stared at her intently, until she caught her attention. Hettie gave a brief headshake. ‘It wasn’t Zane.’

  ‘Then who?’

  Another long gulp drained Hettie’s mug. She stood and turned her back on the question. She dumped the mug in the sink with the others. Braced her palms on the kitchen counter, shoulders rounded as she thought. ‘I admitted that Erick went out that day on business. But I also told you I didn’t know what he was up to, or who with. I still don’t.’

  The day before, DC Mel Scanlon had seized the keys to Swain’s lockup garage, and a search of it had failed to turn up any further evidence. The keys had been held onto, but whether they pointed to anything important was yet to be figured out. ‘You know by now that Erick’s Subaru was used during the shooting, and later found burned out. I’ve heard that car was his pride and joy. In fact, wasn’t it you who said that?’

  ‘It was once. But not for donkeys.’

  ‘He hasn’t driven it for a long time?’

  ‘No. I’m surprised you haven’t checked. He lost his license eighteen months back…accumulation of points for speeding, using his mobile and bollocks like that. The Subaru’s been parked in the lockup since.’

  ‘Which makes me think that he was being driven around by somebody else.’

  Hettie sniffed. ‘He has a lot of friends, and they all drive.’

  ‘Surely he had a favourite? Somebody he relied on more than others? Particularly when conducting business?’

  ‘I warned you once before. Don’t try putting words in my mouth.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m only trying to help you think.’

  ‘I think I’m done with thinking.’ Hettie was wiped out rather than angered. ‘You should drink up and go. Im sorry, Inspector Darke, but I can’t help you.’

  ‘I can help you though,’ Kerry said. ‘You’re possibly looking at a conspiracy to murder charge, or an aiding and abetting charge, at the very least. Help me, Hettie, and I’ll make sure you’re cleared of any involvement before anyone goes to trial.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to be cleared of.’ For the first time, Kerry noticed Hettie’s sapphire engagement ring had been removed, as if she’d already began the process of disassociating herself from her child-killing boyfriend. It was something Kerry could work on. But before she got the opportunity, Hettie snapped her ring-free hand at the barely touched tea. ‘C’mon, drink up. Or leave it. I want you to go.’

  Kerry stood. She’d hoped for more, but it wasn’t the right time to push. Hettie was at a fork in the road, angering her again would force her down the wrong track. ‘Here are my details,’ she said, planting a card down beside her abandoned tea. ‘Use my mobile number. Don’t contact me via the station if you want to speak to me more about this, we should keep it hush-hush.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like police procedure to me.’ Hettie crossed her arms across her breasts.

  ‘Everything we’ve said today is off the record. Same if you come up with any names.’

  Hettie promised nothing.

  18

  DS Korba took over the driving duties as they returned to the police station, allowing Kerry time to mull things over. She should have been thinking about the case, but her personal problems were more distracting. She was still fuming at Adam. They hadn’t set a date for their wedding and it was a bloody good job too! If he was the type to try to dominate and control her this early on in their relationship she wasn’t certain she wanted to be Mrs Kerry Gill. His assertion that her job was too much for her to cope with was plain wrong. She was a good copper, and he’d no right to say otherwise. She’d dedicated herself to becoming one of the youngest female detective inspectors in the Met, and hadn’t reached that position by going down on her knees for her male superiors. Hard graft and determination were her pedigrees. And where did he get off insinuating she was losing her mind?

  Maybe she’d acted a little irrationally, but people of sound mind could suffer temporary blowouts when stressed. Practically warning that she was going nuts wasn’t the correct approach if he hoped to ease her worries.

  Back when first she’d grown aware of Girl’s presence, Doctor Ron had cleared her of any underlying mental health issues, so why should seeing her again now be any different? Admittedly, seeing Swain was another matter entirely, but what if it were part of a similar process? What if she did have some kind of heightened ability to see beyond the norm, what would Adam think then? On the face of it the idea was laughable, but who knew? There were swindlers and charlatans, but also people with genuine extra sensory powers. People who claimed to communicate with the dead and see into the future: they could be a bit whacky, but they weren’t necessarily mad or frauds. And yet, Adam hadn’t directly referred to any claim she’d
made of seeing Girl, or anything else. His accusation was that her obsession with finding Sally and catching the Fell Man was unhinging her. She wished she’d never confided in him her reason for pursuing a law enforcement career. Every time the subject came up Adam found a way to use it to undermine her. His notion of tough love wasn’t being helpful.

  Bilan’s death had affected her deeply. No denying it. But it wasn’t the first death that had touched her while she’d been in the job. What kind of detective would she be if she didn’t show compassion for the victims of crime? Having empathy with them ensured she tried her hardest to bring their attackers to justice. Normally her response was cold determination, and it drove her to catch the perpetrators. Bilan’s death had hit her in a different way though: deep sadness. And then there was Erick Swain’s horrible end, and her swift suspension from duty. Was it any surprise she wasn’t acting herself? Adam should know better. He’d brought his work home with him before, and she had been a rock for him, not so much a shoulder to cry on — Adam wasn’t prone to the gentler emotions — but a comforting presence. She had been his Girl.

  He simply didn’t understand her.

  Her need to catch the Fell Man, and discover the fate of her sister, had become obsessive. In parts it had consumed her, but it had also shaped the adult she’d become. Throughout her police career it had possibly saved lives, and definitely led to the conviction of other criminals. It was an obsession yes, but for the good. And it was more than that. It was a personal quest. Well, if Adam didn’t like it, he could lump it.

  What are you saying? You’d choose your quest over the man you love?

  She shouldn’t have to choose.

  Though Adam might.

  Lately she’d had the feeling that he wasn’t equipped to handle the baggage she’d brought into their relationship. Well, that’s his problem, not mine. If he isn’t happy, he knows where he can get off!