by Bo Brennan
India wet her lips as he started coming towards her. Rolled her shoulders against the restrictive stab vest as she backed away. His eyes glinted with amusement as he briefly glanced beyond her, making her conscious she was backing towards the edge. She flexed her fingers and bounced on her toes as she began to circle, bobbing and weaving like a boxer. A full out brawl wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind, a resisting arrest slap and scrotum twist was all she'd envisioned. The good doctor had loaded the deck and raised the stakes in what had quickly become an all or nothing game.
“Bring it on, dickhead,” she said beckoning him with her hands. “You won't find me as obliging as your wife. I'll fight to the death you fucker.”
“Then I guess we'll both have fun.” Johnson lunged forwards, throwing his hands in the air when she leapt aside. “I thought you wanted to play,” he laughed.
“The chase is all part of the fun, Doc. You'll have to catch me first.” He was too big for her to take down alone. And fitter than she'd earlier given him credit for. Clearly far more calculating too. She'd have to get him more enraged, get more fire behind his lunge in order to use his forward momentum to her own advantage.
“Would it help if I curled up in a little ball on the floor like Arabella?” she goaded bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Johnson gave a hearty laugh. “It would certainly get things over quicker. But I must admit it was much more fun when she used to fight back.”
India bobbed and bounced towards him, slapped his face and swiftly retreated. “How about if I called you Daddy?”
Johnson's eyes narrowed.
“That's right, Doc. I know you beat your son too. Probably even pimp him out to your rich mates as well.”
“You're not fit to mention my son,” Johnson raged lunging towards her. “You're nothing.”
India shuffled to her left, ready to take him down, and snagged her foot. She flung her arms wide to steady herself, but she was too late. Already off balance, the dickhead seized his moment and bowled head long into her chest knocking all the air from her lungs. The skyline tilted in slow motion as she went arse over tit, landing hard on her back with Johnson sprawled length ways across her thighs.
Using her elbows she shimmied backwards, dragging him across the roof as she fought to free her legs from underneath him. She reached the roof edge as he reached out and grabbed her calf. Bracing her back against the low roof wall, she slammed her free foot into the side of his head sending him sprawling. She rolled to her hands and knees, gasping for air, her eyes fixated on the tear in the decaying roof felt that had felled her.
He clamoured to his feet with an angry growl. India drew her knees up to her chest, crouching on her fingertips and toes, as Johnson's ridiculously shiny shoe swung through the air in slow mo towards her face. She bowed her head, springing forwards at his planted leg, sending him airborne like a gazelle and crashing into the low wall behind her as she flopped onto her belly. When she looked up, he was teetering precariously on the edge. And then he started to fall.
“No!” she shouted, reaching out for him as he vanished from view.
Fuck. She commando crawled to the low wall and hauled herself up to peer over the edge. Johnson was clinging on for dear life. The tips of his shiny shoes balanced on a six inch wide masonry lip, while his fingertips glowed white against the base of the roof wall a foot below her. One side of her mouth quirked into a smile. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” she said dully.
Johnson's panicked eyes stared up at her. “Pull me up.”
India crossed her arms and rested her chin on them, her body comfortably stretched out behind her like a sunbather. “Tell me where Billy Lewis is.”
Johnson frowned. “What?”
“You want my help or not?”
Johnson glanced down and glared back up at her. “I can't hold on much longer.”
“Better talk fast then.”
“He's in a better place,” he spluttered.
“Is he dead?”
“No. We saved him from that slum for a better life.”
India narrowed her eyes. “His mother loved him.”
“His mother couldn't even tell the difference between heat rash and meningitis,” Johnson barked. “She didn't deserve him. That boy will change the world. He's a beacon of hope. Now, pull me up,” he cried.
“Where is he?”
“I can't tell you. It's top secret. For god's sake, help me woman!”
“Is it a secret you're prepared to die for?”
A vein throbbed at his temple. “You've had your fucking fun, bitch. Now get me up!”
“That's not very nice,” India chirped enjoying his increasing agitation. Every second they were up here, his arms weakened and his plan crumbled a little more.
“I know your type,” he sneered. “All bitter and twisted because you want to be equal. You'll never be equal. You can only fuck your way so far up the chain of command. Men make the decisions. Men like me. We're in control. We decide how far you go and what you're worth. Now get me the fuck up before I decide you're as dead as Lisa Lewis.”
“Tell me where Billy is.”
“Get me up!”
India stared at him. He was never going to tell. When she pulled him up, she was going to lose her job, possibly her life. Arabella was going to prison. Hector was destined to a life of abuse. And Johnson was going to be a super rich arsehole. Resigned to the inevitable outcome, she sighed as she unfolded her arms and shuffled forwards.
“Finally,” he said. “You're a hard faced bitch, but I knew you'd see sense.”
“You don't know me at all.” India reached down and unfurled his fingers one by one. Watched the fear in his eyes as he tried to cling on, and wondered how many times he'd seen that same desperate look in the eyes of his wife and child, or the parents whose lives he'd torn apart. She stared into his panic stricken face as he plummeted to the hospital car park, landing on top of a car with a dense thud and small bounce.
When the door crashed open behind her, she glanced over her shoulder to see PC Paul Smith running to her side, panting like he'd crossed the finish line of a marathon. “Shit,” he gasped. “Are you all right? Where's Johnson?”
“Jumped,” India said jutting her chin towards her outstretched arms. “I couldn’t reach him.”
“Oh fuck,” Paul muttered, leaning over the wall to see the mess Dr Dale Johnson had made below them. “He doesn’t look happy, mate.”
“No he doesn't,” India murmured staring down into the furious glare of Sergeant Lee Sangrin. “His car's a write off.”
Chapter 63
Knightsbridge, London.
The living had all gone.
Colt stared at the empty cribs. No single hospital could deal with an influx of babies on such a grand scale; they'd had to be ferried to hospitals far and wide for check-ups. But then what? What would become of the parentless new-borns after? Only a corrupt system beckoned. A system he was far from comfortable with.
“It's time,” Maggie said squeezing his arm.
Colt grimaced. Now, it was the turn of the dead to leave. He was far less comfortable with that.
He drew a deep breath through his nose and followed Mags out the front door. A sombre guard of honour lined the lawn, MP5s at their feet and helmets in their hands. Colt and Maggie stepped into the space reserved for them at the head of the line, next to the open doors of the coroner’s van.
As the technicians wheeled Sergeant Bob Green's body through, the summer air grew heavy, the silence deafening. Even the birds seemed to still. Each officer bowed their head as he passed, bidding their brother in arms farewell, but also offering unspoken guilt riddled thanks that today it wasn't them.
When the gurney reached Colt, he swallowed hard and stepped forward. Resting his hand on the body bag he bid his own silent farewell. And it hurt. He was riddled with guilt, but his wasn't thankful. This was his team. It should've been him, not Bob. Bob was more than a colleague. He was a friend. Shortly
Colt would have to tell his wife the father of her children was never coming home again. The thought was more than sobering. He stepped back and gave a curt nod. The body was loaded and the doors closed. The van slowly pulled away, only to be replaced with another.
The guard of honour dispersed with a mumble of expletives and harsh words, as social worker Brian Fleming's body was wheeled forward. Only Colt and Maggie remained looking on. The bastard had taken his secrets to his grave. Colt cleared his throat. “I want his place ransacked today,” he said. “I want that fucking tape of Dwight Sanders’ visitors. And I want Alan Roberts brought in. He was Fleming's buddy; he knows more about all this than he's letting on. Get that smarmy bastard manager from the NLF hauled in as well. The arsehole said this place was a private concern. He didn't say fuck all about it still being connected to Barrington.”
“On it,” Maggie said pulling out her radio. “DCI Firman called just before we came out. Winchester has got a search team turning over Barrington's estate. The warrant's only for documents connected to here, but at least we can be confident Johnson's not busy destroying evidence right now. You know what, Guv; he really didn't strike me as the type to off himself.”
“There's no such thing as type,” Colt murmured.
“Chief,” Pauline Slater called from the door. “We've got a ton of documents in the basement.”
Colt and Maggie followed her into the house as the body of the bald heavy who'd shot Bob was unceremoniously chucked into the back of another van. She led them to a door at the rear of the building. “We chased Barrington down here,” she said gesturing them onwards. Colt ducked through the door and descended a flight of stairs to find himself in a dank and cluttered basement storage area. “That's the only exit,” Pauline said pointing to the far corner where the remains of a door hung off its hinges. “He didn't make it, but we figured that's where he was heading so we took it off anyway. Hope you don’t mind.”
Colt shrugged. He couldn’t give a shit; he intended to take this place apart brick by brick if necessary. He stepped through the obliterated door and waded through the documents littering the floor on the other side. The plastered whitewashed walls and regimented filing racks in this basement room, were in stark contrast to the bare brick and clutter of where they'd just come from.
“It's like a different building,” Maggie said stepping in behind him.
Pauline Slater grinned. “I think you'll find it is.” She banged the butt of her gun against the remains of the door. “Take a look at the other side.”
Colt tugged it back and could see where the spilt documents had tumbled from. The back of the door was whitewashed plaster and racked like the walls. He glanced up at the hole. There was no frame this side, in fact, there was no door. He imagined it in place. The files in their rightful position. The racking sitting flush. You wouldn't even know it was there, unless of course, you were the one who installed it, or used it.
“Where the hell are we?” Maggie asked.
Colt picked up one of the files and handed it to her. “The New Lives Foundation archive,” he said looking to the staircase on the other side of the room. “I'll bet my shirt that door leads to the reception area. Get it off its hinges, Pauline.”
Hampshire CID, Winchester
India reached for the interview room door and the poisoned dwarf blocked her path. She stared straight ahead. Her mood was far too high to be brought down by whatever inane bollocks he was about to spout in the confines and privacy of the viewing room.
“The Guv might wear your version of events, but I don't,” Sangrin hissed. “You pushed Johnson off that roof. I saw you.”
“You saw me trying to pull him up,” she said keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the door.
“I know what I saw. You'll be fighting off dykes in prison shortly.”
“You have some weird sexual fantasies,” India said. “Have you thought about counselling?”
She heard his teeth grind in his jaw. “You're going down, Kane. Three hundred and eighty four cameras cover the Royal South Hants. Paul Smith's on his way back here with all the CCTV footage now. I'm going to comb it myself and prove that you killed Johnson in cold blood.”
India huffed a chuckle. “I hope it's in black and white. You'll die of boredom or retire before you find anything.”
“I'm on to you,” he spat through gritted teeth. “And I'm going to get you, even it fucking kills me.”
India turned her head to face him. “It might. I might get you first.”
Sangrin's eye twitched. He clenched his jaw and took a step back as the Guv’nor entered the charged air of the viewing room. “For Christ’s sake you can't still be bloody arguing,” Firman snapped. “Get your arse in there and get the sodding interview done. The clock's ticking and I want to get home tonight.”
“I'll keep it short, Guv,” India said.
“He'll keep it short,” Sangrin said. “He'll give consistent no comments as usual.”
India raised a shoulder and opened the door. “We'll see.”
Marky Markham struck his usual 'not a care in the world' interview room pose - slouched back in the chair, legs spread wide, arms hanging limp at his sides, all attitude and gold bling which now extended to his teeth. His new brief was a different matter. India eyeballed him as she pulled out her chair. He was a far cry from the duty solicitor who usually defended this scrote. With his slicked back hair, polished jaw, and a manicure that would make even the most fastidious of women envious, he stank of more than overpowering aftershave. He stank of money. Barrington money. Markham had taken a big step up. India would take a lot of pleasure in knocking him back down.
“How's your son?” she asked.
The brief raised a brow.
“You'd know better than me, cuntstable,” Markham sneered. “You helped the bitch get the restraining order.”
“Oh that's right. I forgot about that. You can't see that one, can you,” India mused and diverted her eyes to his brief. “Your client liked to slap that kid's mother around a bit. Big man,” she said lifting her little finger and waggling it at him.
The brief cleared his throat. “This has no bearing whatsoever on...”
“My dick's big enough to fill your smart mouth, bitch.” Markham shuffled forward in his seat and propped his elbows on the table smiling at her. “I'd like to shake the man's hand that did that to your face.”
“Dead,” India said quirking the side of her mouth that moved into a smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.” It was a minor fib. Only one of the people responsible for the plate in her face was currently dead, but the other couldn't be too far behind.
“So, back to your son. You never answered my question. How is he? I mean, you must know. You must've actually met him while working at the New Lives Foundation. I haven't. All I've got is his picture.” India tilted her head and slid the photograph of Billy Lewis under his nose.
Marky Markham dropped his eyes to the photo and frowned. Shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he picked it up.
“The mother of that son won't be filing a restraining order any time soon,” India said. “You might remember her. Lisa Lewis. You chucked her off the Winchester car park roof.”
The air left his lungs in one sudden rush. Now he had a care in the world. India watched the muscles of his face work and his jaw tighten. As he drew a deep breath his whole body swelled in size. When he eventually lifted his eyes to meet hers, the man was primed to kill. “I want to see Johnson,” he growled.
India stared at him. “I think he was worried about that. Chucked himself off the hospital roof this afternoon. Barrington's in custody, though. Anything you'd like to say to him?”
The brief raised his hand. “My client has nothing to say...”
India ignored his babbling, he was only here as one of Barrington's extensive network of arse coverers. She kept her eyes fixed on the seething loose cannon sitting next to him, waiting for the baseball bat swinging thug to fully emerge. Barrington and his ass
ociates had made a big mistake putting this one on the payroll. He wasn't like them. His respect was based on fear and intimidation, not money. But they had things in common. According to Janet - the mother of one of his many discarded daughters littering the Badger Farm estate - sons were all that mattered.
Marky Markham's nostrils flared and India planted her feet wide under the table, bracing herself for an onslaught as the penny finally dropped.
He slammed both fists down on the table. His brief scrambled for cover. India didn't flinch. “Barrington, can you hear me?” he screamed sending spit flying everywhere like a rabid dog. “That was my baby's mama you did me for. You sold my fucking son! You're a dead man! Do you hear me?”
“I doubt it. He's in London,” India said dully. “But thanks for that admission.” She stood up and winked at him. “Keep your fingers crossed and you might get to serve your life sentences together. Won't that be cosy.”
Chapter 64
Park Gate, Hampshire.
It was almost midnight when he drove down the dirt track and into the secluded clearing where the houseboats rested. In the distant glow of India's outside lamp, he could see her sitting on the deck wrapped in a blanket. She'd been swimming. He wasn't surprised, it had been a bad day all round.
He parked on the hard standing as she padded barefoot down the steps to greet him. “I thought you might be hungry,” he said holding up a takeout bag.
“I am.” She let the blanket fall from her shoulders in the moonlight. “But not for that.”
His eyes coursed her naked body. As much as he wanted her, he wondered how much she'd had to drink. He gave a shudder and cleared his throat, forcing his eyes up to meet hers. “I guess you won't need the wine I bought either.”
“Nope,” she said slipping her hand down his trousers. “All I need is this.”
