Darke

by Matt Hilton

  ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’

  ‘I’m bloody well going to.’

  ‘You’ll get me the sack!’

  ‘Would that be a bad thing?’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Kerry,’ he said with less vitriol, ‘I’m only trying to help you. I’m telling you, love, you need to take some time off, see a doctor and get your head sorted out, or better yet, pack in the job altogether.’

  ‘Or else what? What are you going to do if I refuse? Because I promise you this, Adam, there’s no way I’m quitting, and no way I’m jeopardising my career by admitting to seeing ghosts.’

  He’d tried, but he was reaching the end of his rope. It was time for hard fact. ‘You want to know what I’ll do? Well here’s the truth, Kerry, and you’re not going to like it. I spend enough time looking after nutters at work, I don’t intend coming home to one too.’

  24

  ‘If London’s one of the most surveilled cities in the world, why the hell can’t we find one camera with a clear image of Swain’s Subaru?’

  Kerry’s frustration was manifesting as anger, aimed wrongly at Korba as they sat over their breakfasts. After her early morning spat with Adam, her fiancé had decided to end their argument with his ill veiled threat, then stormed off to the kitchen where he rattled around for a few minutes before stomping upstairs and throwing himself in bed. Although she’d personally questioned his commitment to their relationship before, it still hurt when he was having similar doubts about her. Tempted to follow him, to reason with him about his sensible — but impossible — demands, she’d proven too stubborn. Having spent the night in an alcohol-induced fog, it was easy to now believe that the events of yesterday were figments of a dream she’d allowed to leak into her waking thoughts. She was sleep deprived, stressed, and whether she’d admit it openly, was suffering from repressed guilt over Swain’s death, and the murder of Bilan Ghedi had re-ignited her obsession, her desperation, to find Sally’s abductor. She should see a doctor. But what could conventional medicine do for her? When she was a child, struggling to deal with her sister’s disappearance, Doctor Ron had counselled against the use of medication. He’d suggested to her parents that instead of worrying about their daughter’s need to drift into fantasy they should allow her to find a safe place in her imagination to work through her troubles. As an adult she wouldn’t be given the same leeway to heal in her own time and place. A doctor would prescribe anti-depressant or anti-psychotic drugs, plus time off work, and they were the last she needed.

  The only way she could exorcise Swain was to solve the case. He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be. He was the manifestation of her detective’s intuition, telling her she was missing the obvious to prompt her on to the correct investigative path. She had a layman’s knowledge of the way the human mind worked, and thought that her current demeanour could be explained by Sigmund Freud’s tripartite psyche theory being out of balance. In Freud’s opinion, the human psyche, or personality, comprised of three parts, the id, ego and superego. Broken down the id was the primitive part, generating impulsive and unconscious responses, based on instinct and hidden memories, while the superego operated as a moral conscience. The ego was the realistic component charged with mediating between the id and superego, and supposedly coming to balanced decisions. The interaction of each part dictated an individual’s behaviour. The id operates on the pleasure principle, where wishful impulse demands immediate satisfaction, regardless of consequence, and right then she believed she was caught in its thrall. Popular culture had pictured Freud’s theory in simplistic terms: a devil and angel on each shoulder. Swain was her devil, and Girl — as Suleymaan Ghedi might have it — her guiding angel. Unfortunately Swain was proving the more vocal.

  Expecting an immediate response from Mel Scanlon’s laborious examination of the CCTV network was possibly a wishful desire of the id too.

  ‘Swain knew the neighborhood well, and probably plotted his route beforehand to avoid detection from the street cameras.’ Korba posed his suggestion more like a question: it was a valid theory.

  ‘That makes sense,’ she concurred, ‘but he couldn’t’ve avoided every private camera system, or mobile phone or whatever. Surely someone caught a clear image of the Subaru on its way to or leaving the scene?’

  ‘It’s a probability, but they’re unaware of it. We need to put out another request for information.’ Korba shrugged at his idea. ‘It’d mean throwin’ it past Porter, but I’m happy to do that.’

  ‘He’ll welcome a few more minutes on camera,’ she said. ‘An opportunity to put his last appearance behind him.’

  ‘You going to eat that, boss?’

  Kerry glanced down at her plate.

  They were seated in a quiet corner in a family run café on Museum Street, a stone’s throw from the British Museum. Despite the owners being Greek Cypriots, and relatives of Korba, he hadn’t requested Greek food but ordered them both a full English breakfast – the best cure for a hangover in his opinion. Kerry had pushed the items around on her plate, and couldn’t recall taking a single bite. ‘Take what you want, Danny, I haven’t the appetite.’

  ‘No. Get it down you. You need to line your stomach. Get a bit of colour in your cheeks before you show up at the nick.’

  ‘I need more tea.’

  ‘Eat something. I promise you’ll feel better.’ He checked over her plate. ‘Mind you, if you’re not keen on sausage…’

  She stabbed his object of desire off her plate and transferred it to his. Korba immediately set to it, cutting it into manageable chunks that he mopped at some egg yolk with. Kerry was close to heaving. ‘Fancy the bacon as well?’

  Korba’s eyebrows danced a jig.

  Once she’d vacated her plate of recognisable meat products she gingerly began picking at the eggs, tomatoes, baked beans and toast. Each mouthful went down a little easier, and soon she regretted giving away the most succulent items. She ordered another mug of tea and round of toast, butter and jam.

  ‘That was a lifesaver,’ she said, finally setting down her cutlery on her cleared plate.

  ‘Told you.’ Korba spread butter on the last surviving triangle of toast. ‘Uh, do you want this?’

  ‘No. Go for it. You’ve earned it, Danny.’

  Adam was right when advising her against driving. Even hours later she suspected she’d fail a test, but the food and tea would help metabolise the alcohol from her system. After showering, dressing in fresh clothing, and going overboard with perfume and deodorant, she’d summoned Korba to her rescue. While waiting for him, she brushed her teeth three times, gargling with mouthwash between each go with the toothbrush, before she was reasonably confident her breath wouldn’t strip the paint off the walls. Sympathetic to her cause, Korba had suggested waiting until later before making an appearance at the nick, and had driven her to his cousin’s café for some “restorative medicine”. En route to Museum Street he’d called the control room with a white lie that they were conducting follow up enquiries.

  ‘While you’re in the mood for sharing, boss…’

  It took her a moment to realise Korba wasn’t talking about toast.

  ‘Me and Adam are going through a rough patch. But you don’t have to worry. We’ll get through it.’ Which she feared was a lie. Some things you couldn’t come back from unmarked, and Adam hurt her with his parting threat. As far as she was concerned, wedding vows included a commitment to your spouse through sickness and health, and Adam had clearly stated his position there. Well, in her case it was warts and all, or he could forget it. She loved Adam, or thought she had, but now she wasn’t as certain.

  ‘I’m not one to pry,’ Korba said tentatively.

  ‘Come off it, Danny. You’re a detective. Prying’s in the job description.’

  ‘Not into your private life it ain’t.’

  They eyed each other for an uncomfortable moment. For once she didn’t see fascination in his gaze as he studied her eye colouring, only sadness.


  ‘Say what’s on your mind,’ she said.

  He gathered himself by tearing open a sachet of sugar and dumping it into his second mug of tea. Concentrating on his cup as he stirred, he asked: ‘Would it offend you if I said there’s something off about you?’

  ‘Apart from my smell?’

  He looked up at her from beneath his brows. ‘I thought you were acting odd when we went to see Hettie...all that stuff about ghosts. But after, when you were back in the office…’

  ‘Aye,’ she sighed. ‘I was a little off. You can blame that on Porter.’

  ‘He giving you a hard time?’

  ‘When doesn’t he?’

  Korba exhaled with enough force to move the empty sugar sachet a few inches towards her. He trapped it under his fingers.

  ‘But that’s his job,’ Kerry went on. ‘He demands results, and it’s my job to give him them. He made that clear.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time. But that’s what I find so odd. He pisses you off, pisses me off too, and I’ve seen you annoyed before. But, well…’

  ‘Go on. Just for a minute forget that I’m your boss, and see me as your friend. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  ‘OK.’ Korba spread both his hands on the table. ‘Friend to friend, I’ve never seen you shit scared like that before.’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Sorry friend, but you were. Correction, you are scared. Even while we’ve been sitting here you’ve been on pins. As if you’re expecting the worst to happen. What are you so afraid of…imagining Swain’s ghost again?’

  There was no possible way she could admit to being haunted by a foul-mouthed spirit, despite his caring approach. ‘It’s another kind of spook I’m bothered about. Do you know who Superintendent Graeme Harker is?’

  ‘I know of him. Thankfully I’ve never had the misfortune of meeting him, seeing as he’s the Lord of the Dark Side.’ A shadow passed behind Korba’s features. ‘Aah, I get ya.’

  ‘When I went to see Porter, I almost walked in on a meeting they were having. Porter wouldn’t confirm it, but I think I was the subject of discussion. Danny, I am afraid, but it’s because I’m worried I’m under investigation by Professional Standards.’

  ‘Fucking rubber heelers.’ Korba’s reaction was similar to most she’d heard concerning the DPS. ‘They’ve nothing better to do than cause trouble for good coppers. But why would they be after you, boss? You ain’t given them cause…’

  He paused, and Kerry wondered if he was reconsidering. The Department for Professional Standards wasn’t only concerned with rooting out corruption in police ranks, it was also there to avoid any employee bringing the force into disrepute through other means. Had her erratic behaviour grown so noticeable that she’d raised Porter’s hackles to that level? Unfortunately the answer was yes.

  ‘There’s, uh, nothing they can use against you, is there?’

  ‘I’m surprised you even have to ask, Danny.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Sorry.’

  She waved off his apology. ‘Unless you include this. Grabbing breakfast to cover up the fact I’m too pissed to go to work.’

  Korba glanced around quickly. The only other person in the café was an octogenarian woman, almost asleep over her own breakfast. ‘I think we’re safe,’ he said, and offered a strained grin. ‘Unless Mata Hari over there has some kind of directional microphone stashed under her headscarf.’ They shared a chuckle. Korba touched his nose. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’

  Unfortunately, his action soured the humour for her, because Kerry pictured an ethereal Erick Swain similarly tapping his nose. ‘I know stuff. Secrets.’

  She fully expected the bastard to show his face again, maybe leering from behind the elderly lady at the corner table, performing a lewd act to salt her breakfast. Jesus, Kerry, that’s disgusting! You’re beginning to think like him. ‘Maybe we should get out of here?’

  Korba stuffed the last piece of buttered toast in his mouth, chewing as he approached the counter, digging his wallet from a hip pocket.

  ‘There’s no charge, Danny,’ said the server, an older version of DS Korba: more weight, less hair on his head, but a similar height and colouring.

  ‘Cheers, Cuz.’ Korba began jamming away his wallet.

  Kerry placed a twenty-pound note down on the counter, said, ‘Keep the change.’

  His cousin glanced at Korba for permission to accept the money, then at Kerry, and finally nodded his thanks. He spirited the note into the cash register, then waved goodbye as they exited. There were tables on the pedestrianized section of the street, and a couple of smokers had taken up residence at one of them. Tourists taking a well earned break from trudging around the nearby British Museum, or undercover DPS officers staking them out? Kerry’s bet was on the former, but she’d been particular about paying their way for their breakfasts…just in case. A freebie offered to coppers was seen as a possible route to corruption, and she didn’t want to give Porter or especially Superintendent Harker any grounds to question her integrity.

  Their car was in a “permit holders only” parking bay on Little Russell Street, outside a shop front museum dedicated to the history of cartoons. Korba had stood a laminated card on its dashboard, identifying it as being parked “on official duty”. He saw the parking privileges it afforded as a perk of the job, rather than a misuse of their official status. Under the current situation, Kerry wasn’t sure they should take any liberty. She took a prolonged look over her shoulder before getting inside.

  Before driving off, Korba dug in his jacket pocket and held up a clear plastic box. ‘Breath mint?’

  ‘I still stink of alcohol?’

  ‘Kerry, you smell like the angel’s share,’ Korba told her. She was briefly complimented until she recalled where she’d heard the term before. It was what distillers called the amount of alcohol that evaporates through a barrel during the whisky maturation process.

  Sighing, she held up her cupped palm. ‘You’d better give me the full box.’

  DCI Porter was on the warpath when they finally rolled up at the nick. He was dressed in his number two uniform, as opposed to the civilian suit he normally favoured, suggesting he’d been out at New Scotland Yard again, and wasn’t happy that they were AWOL when he’d returned.

  As they entered the Gangs and Organised Crime office, toting paper cups of coffee from a nearby Starbucks, he was standing over DC Scanlon at her workstation like a scavenger waiting for her to perish. Glenn Scott and Tony Whittle were elsewhere, conducting enquiries of their own. Korba was first through the door, and skidded to a halt. Kerry almost spilled scalding black coffee down his back.

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you two been?’ Porter strode out from behind Scanlon’s desk. ‘I’ve been calling you both for the past hour.’

  Korba offered a disarming shrug of confusion. ‘Called us how, sir?’

  ‘How do you suppose, Sergeant, with bloody jungle drums? I’ve called you both and neither of you have picked up.’

  ‘We were conducting follow up enquiries, sir. We did inform control that we’d be unavailable on comms for a while.’

  ‘It’s not good enough. But forget that for now. We’ve a more urgent matter to deal with.’ He snapped a command to join him behind Mel’s desk. Mel angled her computer screen so it could be viewed from the room. ‘Look,’ Porter said. ‘While you were off gallivanting, DC Scanlon made a break through, and had to call on me for instruction. This is not how I like to see my team run, Detective Inspector.’

  Before the DCI could go on complaining, Kerry moved in to study what was on the computer screen. Excitement jolted through. It was time and date-stamped CCTV footage of Swain’s blue Subaru Impreza caught only a few minutes after the fatal shooting of the Ghedis. Unlike most footage they usually had to contend with, grainy black and white images filmed on archaic surveillance systems, this was HD sharp and in vivid colour. Only the angle of the camera denied them a clear shot of the faces
of the car’s occupants, but one thing was proven: Ikemba Adefunke was a downright liar.

  25

  The CCTV evidence threw everything they thought they knew about the shooting of the Ghedis on its head. For a start, Erick Swain wasn’t in the getaway car at all. There was the small possibility he’d been dropped off somewhere between the shooting and the side street where the Subaru was filmed, but Kerry wouldn’t credit it. Swain was a racist, and his gang comprised entirely of equally prejudiced white guys. The driver and passenger were both dark skinned, though positively identifying them could prove difficult.

  The revelation stunned all four detectives into silence. Having had more time to absorb it though, DCI Porter was first to speak. ‘I’d like to know why this is the first time I’m hearing we got the wrong man.’

  ‘I mentioned yesterday I had a theory, sir, but you didn’t want to hear it. You said you wanted facts, proof and evidence.’ Kerry indicated the screen with the back of her hand. ‘This confirms some of the misgivings I had about Swain’s supposed involvement.’

  ‘Facts, proof and evidence are what gives me the arrests and convictions I also demanded,’ said Porter. ‘At least now you’ve something to work on instead of roaming around aimlessly. I want the two men in that car identified and brought in, do you hear me?’

  ‘They’ll do for starters,’ Kerry agreed, ‘but if I’m right, there’ll be more arrests.’ Before Porter could reply, she caught Mel’s attention. ‘Good work, Mel. Now you have a reference point, widen the net between the Subaru’s current position and where we know it ended up on the riverbank, see if you can find any clear images of their faces.’

  ‘No problem, ma’am.’