by Eva Dolan
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot; Ella’s her surrogate daughter, right?’ He smiles, incredulously. ‘People turn their actual kids in all the time.’
Ella moves to get between Dylan and Armstrong, wanting to be in her eye line.
‘This isn’t as bad as it looks,’ she says, trying to sound calm and reasoned and in control, play-acting like she’s been doing for the last two years. But it’s different now because these people are her teachers and they’ll see through all the tricks they’ve taught her. ‘Once Molly knows who he is she’s—’
‘You didn’t tell her?’ Armstrong asks.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I thought it was best if she thought he was just some nobody.’
‘You must have realised he’d be identified eventually.’
‘I panicked,’ Ella admits, face flushing with shame. ‘Then once it was out there, I had to run with it. But, you have to understand, Molly won’t care once she knows it’s Pearce. She’s not going to turn me in. This isn’t as bad as it looks. Really.’
‘She’s completely fucking deluded,’ Dylan says, striding past her into an unlit living room done out in copper and teal, like he owns the place.
Armstrong watches him, her jaw hardening.
‘Ella, go and get yourself something to eat,’ she says, pointing along the hallway. ‘I’ll call you when we’re ready for your input.’
Reluctantly, she goes, hearing the living-room door close softly as she walks into the large kitchen extension at the back of the house. It’s a searing white box with a glass rear wall, lined with glossy black cupboards and marble counters, a horseshoe of a low long sofa at the other end of the room. She won’t go and sit on it, no matter how inviting it looks and how much her body aches. Instead, she takes a smoothie from the fridge and settles herself on a high stool at the breakfast bar where the Saturday papers have been read and piled up again, pastry crumbs and coffee stains on the headlines. A pair of glasses too big for Armstrong left there alongside a puncture-repair kit.
She wonders where Mr Peggy is and how often she allows her work to intrude on her home life.
He was out the only other time Ella had visited the house, brought around for dinner and a chat about her future. She’d assumed Armstrong was going to try and bribe her into silence and she had, dangling a very tempting opportunity in front of her nose, one that punished Pearce and kicked her career into a far more interesting direction than she ever could have hoped.
And now she’s destroyed all of that.
He’d destroyed it for her. Crawling out of the woodwork, challenging her somewhere public so that she only had one option how to respond. If he’d been less impulsive she might have been able to involve Dylan, let him find some way to take Pearce out of play.
But Pearce never gave her a chance to do that, and once he was dead, calling Dylan wasn’t an option. She’d sat there in the long minutes after it happened with Dylan’s number on her phone screen and convinced herself that if he knew about this he would instantly pull the plug and all her hard work would be wasted.
She’d told herself the work was too important to be stopped. It wasn’t about her or Pearce or Dylan; they were all secondary to the job at hand.
Deep down it was shame and self-loathing that stopped her, though. She couldn’t bear the idea that he’d been waiting for her to fail and this would confirm every doubt he’d ever had about her. She’d been the same ever since she was small, tearing up her less-than-perfect drawings and hiding every B she scored in a test. Then, older, driving herself into the ground to avoid the ignominy of a 2:1 even as her friends were praying they’d achieve one.
It was a disease, this perfectionism. She’d realised that some time ago but it didn’t help to stop the symptoms. Her inability to control the symptoms – the anxiety and stress and bouts of ragged depression – just became another thing to loathe herself for. Another way in which she wasn’t quite up to scratch.
That was why she’d called Molly instead of Dylan. Because she knew Molly wouldn’t judge her.
Ella rubs her face, tries to concentrate on the here and now.
She can hear them talking through the closed door. Dylan saying more than Armstrong, but that’s his way and probably why she’s the boss. Ella can’t make out the words, only the tone, and it sounds bad.
But Dylan isn’t the person she needs.
If she can assure Armstrong of Molly’s support, it will change everything. And all she needs to do is tell Molly who they dropped down that lift shaft. Not Quinn, but Adam Pearce, who she doesn’t know, has no loyalty to, couldn’t possibly care about.
Ella slams her hands down on the marble counter. If only she hadn’t panicked in the interview room. If she’d kept Dylan and Armstrong out of this, how much easier would it be to protect herself?
The door opens and Dylan shouts.
‘Ella – in here, now.’
Armstrong stands by the fireplace, a large mirror reflecting the room, and Ella catches sight of herself in it, small and cowed, already defeated. She draws herself up, plants her hands on her hips.
‘Can I say my piece now?’
‘No,’ Dylan tells her. ‘We’re pulling you out.’
She turns to Armstrong.
‘Sorry, pet. We can stop you being prosecuted but once that’s done you’re going to be keeping your head down for a good long while.’ Armstrong carefully realigns a set of tealight holders on the mantel, while Ella watches, too stunned to speak. ‘It’ll be a managed withdrawal, standard practice; you’ll start telling people you’re depressed, that you can’t handle the level of harassment you’re suffering. You’ll close your social-media accounts with a big song and dance. Go up to stay with your parents for a few weeks and . . . you never come back to London.’
‘And then what?’ Ella demands, but she already knows.
A desk job, if she’s very lucky, in some out-of-the-way station, reduced to the status of a jumped-up secretary while other, far less capable officers do the important work. More likely, she’ll be out of the police altogether, and where will her CV take her? Which version will she be allowed to use? The one with undercover cop on it or the one where she’s a burnt-out political activist?
They’re dumping her.
From so high up it feels as if the fall is calculated to be fatal.
‘There’ll be people to help you decompress,’ Armstrong says. ‘It was always going to happen; everyone comes out eventually. And then you get on with your life.’
‘This is my life!’
Panic seizes her, thinking of all the people she won’t be allowed to contact again. Friends lost, just like that, because Armstrong rules it. Genuine friendships, the kind she’d never managed to build at school or university, ones she can’t bear to give up even if they’re built on lies. What on earth are they going to think of her? What are people going to say?
‘I told you, boss,’ Dylan says. ‘She’s been slipping for months. I should have been stricter with her, but I thought she had it under control.’
Ella glares at him. ‘I’m fully under control.’
‘You’ve gone native.’ He speaks slowly, enunciating each word. ‘It happens to everyone, you’re not special. Although you’ve gone off the rails quicker than most.’
‘That’s not what this is.’ Ella looks between them, settles on Armstrong. ‘I am under no delusions about the people you sent me to infiltrate. They are not my friends; they are not my comrades. They’re the enemy and they’re very dangerous.’
‘Everyone tries that line when it’s time to quit.’ Dylan sits down on the teal sofa near the window like he’s settling in for a show. ‘You think it’s what we want to hear but we’ve heard it before. We’ve said it. You get addicted to the excitement and the freedom of behaving like a criminal without the guilt or the potential legal fall-out.’ He smirks. ‘You can’t lie to me, Ella. You’re enjoying the life.’
‘No, I’m enjoying knowing
that I’m doing something worthwhile with my life.’ Ella presses her hands together. ‘This is important work. You know that. Look at what I’ve given you.’
She spiels out the persons of interest she’s identified, most being monitored now, a couple already charged. One woman, she knows for sure, has turned informer against a grassroots hard-left group Armstrong has high on her shitlist as the next general election approaches.
‘You can’t stop me now. Not when I’m finally getting to the heart of this thing.’
‘You murdered a man,’ Armstrong says, quietly. ‘You’re no longer reliable.’
‘It was self-defence.’
‘I’ve seen the file, Ella. It was murder.’
‘What if I confess?’
Dylan jumps to his feet. Armstrong pushes away from the fireplace, comes quickly across the room with her finger stabbing at Ella’s face.
‘Don’t you dare try and bluff me, lady.’
‘I’m not bluffing. I confess, say it was self-defence and take my chances with a jury.’
‘You’ve fucking cracked,’ Dylan says, laughing raggedly.
Ella snarls at him, ‘Stop trying to undermine me.’
He grabs her arm, steps up close to her face. ‘When you’re prepared to risk prison to stay in position, it’s time to get out.’
Ella shakes herself free of him and goes to sit down in one of the velvet armchairs.
He’s right and it’s insanity, but it’s better than the alternative. With Pearce’s record a jury will sympathise with her. Her parents will spring for the best representation and she knows money can buy verdicts. If anything, it might enhance her reputation.
Dylan is squatting in front of her, his hands on her knees, talking in a low and serious voice, but she’s not listening, only watching the shapes his mouth makes and how infrequently he blinks.
She hears the slap before she feels it, stinging her left cheek.
‘Joe, that’s out of order,’ Armstrong says, shoving him away.
He apologises to Armstrong, not Ella, as she slowly touches her hand to her face.
‘He’s right, though, Ella.’ Armstrong perches on the low coffee table. ‘We should have taken better care of you. This is on us. We didn’t realise how deep in you were. But we’re going to get you sorted out now. Get you home and all fixed up; there’s nothing that can’t be sorted with rest and talking things through.’
She smiles and it’s supposed to be reassuring, but Ella can see the fear in her eyes.
‘With respect, ma’am, you’re not looking at the big picture.’ Armstrong’s smile fade as she catches on. ‘If it comes out that I’m an undercover police officer it will take you years to get anyone else in as deep as I am. In all likelihood, you’ll never manage it.’
Armstrong sighes. Dylan swears, softly.
But she keeps going.
‘I couldn’t get in right away, remember?’ Ella gestures at Dylan, because he knows, he remembers how frustrated she’d been in the beginning. ‘Nobody trusted me. Not until I got attacked by that riot officer. That sealed my reputation.’ Ella tries not to look smug. ‘You’ll never be able to make that happen again. Not after everyone knows about me. And what’ll happen in the meantime, while you’ve got no human intelligence coming out? Nobody’s using their phones any more, nobody trusts email or apps, they know their data’s stored and accessible within seconds any time you want to look at it. Everyone’s going old-school. Word of mouth. Trust you can’t earn any way but putting the time in and having contacts that are near impossible to make in the first place. You think you’ll get anybody as close to Martin Sinclair as I’ve got?’ She feels a swell of pride, straightening her spine and lifting her chin, thinking how much she’s achieved and how quickly, with no help from either of them once she was in the field. ‘I’m totally irreplaceable. We all know that.’
Armstrong glances at Dylan, as if he can help. It’s all the signal Ella needs.
‘I’m not leaving,’ she says, rising to her feet, standing impervious. ‘And if you pull me out, I’m going to go straight to the press. You said this department had cleaned its act up; let’s see if the people agree once I tell them how you used me. How you put me in with a handler who sexually exploited me.’
Armstrong shoots a sharp look at Dylan. ‘You fucking idiot.’
‘Yeah,’ Ella nods. ‘Good story, right?’
‘You need to shut your trap,’ Armstrong says, as she backs away. ‘One more word and I’m going to hit you myself. You are out. As of this minute. You are going to drop off the edge of the fucking earth, young lady.’
Blood rushes in Ella’s ears.
‘I want to speak to your boss,’ she says.
Armstrong laughes.
‘I want to speak to Kelman,’ Ella tells her, stepping up closer. ‘And he’ll want to hear what I have to say.’
‘Going to tell him what a cow I’ve been to you?’ Armstrong asks. ‘Think he cares what happens to any one little cog in his machine? Don’t be soft. You’ve got nothing to say he’ll want to hear.’
Ella smiles, trying to look certain as she makes her last wild play. ‘I know who attacked him. Back in eighty-four, coming out of the bookies. Not only do I know, but I can get her to admit it.’
‘Molly Fader?’ Dylan says.
‘Assuming he gave a shit, what makes you think she’ll tell you?’ Armstrong asks. ‘Word is she took days of interrogation that bordered on torture during the original investigation and she gave them nothing. She didn’t do it.’
‘She did,’ Ella says, hoping she’s right, that Sinclair’s hunch was built on solid journalistic instincts. ‘She’s as good as told me already, she only needs a push.’
Something wordless passes between Dylan and Armstrong and Ella sees the years of partnership they’ve shared in that moment. She wonders how it had been when Armstrong was Dylan’s handler. If he’d made her proud. How Armstrong had conducted herself in the field. The sheer vexation they’re exhibiting now makes her suspect neither ever made a move as audacious as this one.
They go into the hallway, hold a conversation so low Ella can’t make out a single word of it as she counts the seconds until Armstrong comes back into the living room.
She shoves her mobile at Ella, looking like she’s just been kicked in the stomach.
‘He wants to speak to you.’
Molly
Now – 31st March
I offer Sinclair my sofa for the night, but he says he needs to get home, drink a lot of coffee and fire up his laptop. So I call him a taxi and, from my balcony, I watch him drunkenly try and fail to open the door twice before he falls into the back of the waiting vehicle. The bottle he brought is empty now, and I’m not sober but not drunk either. I’m in that odd halfway place where you achieve a specific kind of clarity you wouldn’t find anywhere else but in the mix of neat spirits and a sudden and complete removal of certainties.
It’s almost midnight.
Tomorrow, Sinclair is going to run a story about police infiltration of the anti-gentrification movement. No names, just ‘sources close to x’ and ‘sources within the police say’. He’ll mention a murder suspect being whisked away from the interrogation room of a south London station in a blacked-out Range Rover and a family who are already finding their fight for justice stymied by back-room deals.
Because the Pearce family know something is amiss; they’re a police family, one generation removed, and their unthinking trust in the force is fast being eroded. They’re ready to talk to every media outlet that will listen, about their dead boy who they know in their hearts was murdered but who the police are now suggesting might have died ‘by misadventure’.
Sinclair’s source called again with that fresh detail while we were staring at each other across the table and trying to find a reason for Ella’s get-out-of-jail-free card that doesn’t rely on her being an undercover officer.
We couldn’t think of one and once we knew the narrative was being ch
anged, there was no more space for hope or denial.
Ella Riordan, who I trusted and admired and, yes, loved like my own blood – my Ella, is an undercover police officer.
And now I know, I wonder how I ever trusted her.
The assistant chief constable’s daughter. Durham, Trinity, Garton. The girl who dropped out of training because she’d been attacked by a fellow recruit and couldn’t stand the culture of bullying and the system that had tried to silence her when she reported it.
How perfect was that cover?
Maybe that’s why Pearce came after her. Because a decision was made to sacrifice his career to establish her legend. It’s not a new tactic. In fact, it’s so old school that I thought they’d moved on to more high-tech approaches. Hacking us, monitoring our phones. Why did the police need Ella when ninety-nine per cent of the people she made contact with shared everything they were doing on social media anyway?
For the other one per cent, I suppose.
The Quinns of the movement and the Carols. And me, maybe.
I’m the one she got closest to; that had to mean something. Am I their target? Do the police think I’ve been a naughty girl? Naughtier than I really have? They’re about ten years too late. As much as it pains me to admit it. I’ve not taken part in any serious direct action since I learned my lesson at Greenham Common.
The first bona fide crime I’ve committed in years was helping Ella dump a murdered man’s body. Which, I guess, given her job, means I’m the victim of entrapment.
And Sinclair the victim of a honey trap.
He’s arguably the biggest scalp of all. I can imagine Ella’s paymasters salivating at the prospect of placing her close to him and his Europe-wide circle of contacts. A whole network of activists and intellectuals opens up to them through Sinclair, from boys throwing Molotov cocktails at the police on the streets of Athens to Whitehall’s twenty-first-century Kim Philbys leaking information to the press rather than foreign governments.
Perhaps it was always about Sinclair. When I think back to their first meeting and how quickly she fixed on him, it makes sense.
