“You wouldn’t—” he began, then looked up at her.
The barman had moved behind Novak. Elaine nodded at him. “Thanks, Fred.”
“No worries, Ms. Hope.” Fred motioned Novak to follow.
They sat as the barman escorted Novak out. Peter’s solid presence across the table brought back the images she had visualized only a few minutes earlier, and triggered the sense of rightness she had felt. “I’m so sorry. You caught me by surprise, being here. I shouldn’t have chosen this place to meet him. It was convenient, is all.” She took his hand and twined her fingers in his. “But I’m not sorry I’m here. It’s helped me find some perspective. I was thinking about us earlier, when you sat down. I’ve treated you badly. I…” Emotion closed her throat. She sniffed and blinked.
Peter squeezed her hand and spoke just above a whisper. “After what happened, you don’t need to apologize. I know you need your space. I just want you to know what I’ve discovered. I held the keys to the cell I’d built. You hold yours too.”
“Is moving to Texas part of your escape?”
He placed his other hand over hers. “Part of it. It’s a fresh start for my career. I have to get it back on track. London’s not the place.”
“I’m a British cop, darling.”
“And I love you for it.” He lifted her hand to his lips and held it there. She felt the softness of his skin, the warmth of his breath. His closed eyes expressed a contentment she longed for herself. He finally opened them and laughed. “A cop, of all people, ought to know where the keys to our cells are.”
She squeezed his hand. “I have a job to do, my first mission in months. It’s an important one.”
“I’m sure it is, for the Met and for you.” He pointed at Nelson’s exhortation before the fleet went into battle at Trafalgar, carved in the oak beam above the bar. “England expects…” He tipped his head to the door. “Fuckwit’s part of it.”
“Meeting with Novak is no replacement for being with you, but I need to see him now.”
“Right. We’ll talk soon.”
She nodded. “Of course.” He kissed her forehead, caressed her neck with his hand. She took it and held it to her lips. Her eyes followed him to the door, and she allowed that, right now, he looked as good as he had that first time they had met, nine months ago. As he passed under the awning, Novak stood and spoke. Peter ignored him and walked past, into the rain. She was still watching when Novak sat down across from her.
“Wasn’t that touching.”
Elaine watched Peter board a bus that would take him west on Southwark Street. She knew that in a little while he would take another bus that would cross Blackfriars Bridge, north towards his home. She didn’t understand why he insisted on taking buses and not the tube. Perhaps she would ask him some day. She turned to face Novak but didn’t reply.
He tsked. “You were reckless, you know. Getting romantically involved with a witness. Rutting like a ferret with a former suspect. All your years in the service, never set a foot wrong, but you go and boink the guy you released not a week after you make DCI. Definitely a yellow card, lady. Maybe red.”
It wasn’t that particular recklessness she regretted. “Grass me up, then.”
“No use. Everyone knows, all the way to the Commissioner. I figure they’re saving the lash for when you really cock it all up.”
She’d had enough of his crap. “You didn’t ask to meet so you could piss on me.”
“Maybe a bit. You’re either admired or despised. Not much in between. I admire you. You don’t take shit from anyone; you’re a mix of—”
“Why, DI Novak? One more chance or I bolt.” She moved to get up.
Novak gestured appeasement. “I know you’ve talked the case over with Bull and Costello. I want to talk it over with you. There’s more to it than you might think.”
“And you’re afraid I’ll really cock it all up for you and send you to the sausage factory. Help me think right and maybe I won’t.”
“What have those two told you?”
Elaine gave a sardonic laugh and looked around. The pub was empty except for two customers seated at the other end of the long room, engaged in their own conversation. She drained her half-pint and signalled the barman. “Another half of the same, please, Fred.” She looked at Novak, who nodded. “Two, then. We might be here awhile.”
After Fred had set the beers on the table, she said, “I’ll start. You were in the NCA and got reassigned to a murder investigation. Your team was cobbled on the fly, including Bull and Costello. Costello’s a brand-new sergeant, but he’s running the incident room. I can see doing that if Murder Investigation is a bit short-handed, but we’re no more short-handed now than we ever are. When things get tight, we bring in some likely candidates from other parts of CID, ship in some uniforms, and keep going. But we don’t bring in a new senior investigating officer from another organization. So I’m interested. I asked myself why this murder is different.”
He smirked. “Because it touched on an operation we’re running.”
She sipped her ale and placed the glass carefully on the table. “Come on. We who? I don’t want to have to pull teeth. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Novak leaned back and looked at her with hooded eyes. “Don’t get melodramatic with me, Hope.”
Insubordinate ass. “I’m DCI Hope or ma’am to you, Novak. NCA or not. And melodramatic means something different to a crazy woman on a mission than it does to you.” She leaned across the table. “You’d do well to remember that.”
She continued in a quieter voice. “You asked for this meeting, so you’re buying. Talk.”
“Financial Crimes, NCA. Money laundering. National, not just London. The Home Office gives national oversight. The mayor’s office is concerned about Lights Out London.”
“And the poor headless sod lying in the mortuary triggered your Operation Whatsit?”
“Operation Wedge, as in thin end of. We think they fucked up by killing him.” He took a sip of his ale. “Quite good. You know your beer.”
“They?”
Novak shook his head and smiled. “The dirty money flows into tax havens in the Channel Islands, or the Caribbean, somewhere offshore.”
“But they aren’t satisfied with just stashing it. They want to grow it.”
“True. But remember, these people do it so they can live the high life. Fancy cars, big cigars, and beautiful women they need to find nests for. World-class shopping and clubs to entertain them. So they scrub-scrub-scrub.”
She sipped her beer. “And come to London. You must have heard the same presentation I did last week. All interesting. But it doesn’t answer my question. Why a special team?”
“Why does the Met ever form a special team?”
“Don’t be coy, Novak. I’ll make it easy. Complete this sentence with a sensible answer: The Met formed a special team because…”
“There are those in law enforcement who profit from the money laundering. We needed a team outside of any particular chain of command.”
“So, police corruption. Any chance of a result?”
“These things are sensitive. We have to tread lightly.”
“You’ve had a good team for over a week, and that’s all you can say?”
“Let’s cut the crap. My case has nothing to do with your Srecko obsession, so stay away. Period. I don’t want to hear of you snooping around, meeting with your two puppies. You’re on the sick. Act like it. If you freelance this one, you’ll be out on your sweet arse.”
A corruption investigation masked as a murder enquiry made no sense. Who was Novak investigating? From what Bull and Costello had told her, she couldn’t tell where he was pointing the investigation. Was he trying to expose a murderous cop?
Elaine drained her glass and stood. “Is that why you called this meeting? To threaten me?” As she walked towards the door, she waved to Fred and jerked her head towards Novak. “Later, mate. It’s his shout.”
T
HIRTY-SIX
Friday evening, Mortlake
Fiona checked her mirror and changed lanes. The traffic on the M3 was moving north towards London at a steady pace. She would be at the Mortlake house soon.
She’d called Jonny before she’d left and told his voicemail she would be home by seven PM and needed to talk about something important. He hadn’t replied, so she rang him again. Jonny’s voice message sounded over the radio speakers, “This is Commander—”
She ended the call just as the Range Rover’s tires thumped on the expansion joints of the Winchfield railroad bridge. Two miles later her phone chirped, and Jonny’s name displayed on the screen. She pressed the button on her steering wheel.
“Hello, Fee. Can’t be home by seven. I’m in Oxford. Conference with the Thames Valley Police. What do you need?”
“I need to talk. In person, conference or no. Something’s happened and I—we—need to take care of it. I’ll meet you at home. When can you be there?”
“Where are you? It sounds like you’re driving.”
“On the M3, back from Waleham. I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“Can’t you tell me over the phone? We’re on a short break.”
The man was truly self-centred. “Jonny, I already said. It’s … it’s something that can—what am I saying?—that will affect both our lives. Probably your career. We need to talk.”
“Jacko?”
“Something to do with him. I need your help, and you need to listen.”
She heard voices in the background, then Jonny, muffled. Maybe she should just blurt it out. Maybe telling him wasn’t as complex as she thought. “Jonny—”
He was back. “Alright. I can leave in an hour. I’ll call you when I get to the M4.”
“Jonny!” He’d rung off.
She jabbed at the red icon on the display. He’d leave in an hour and a half, more like, if then. A glance at the dashboard clock told her it was just past six PM. She’d be lucky if he got home by nine thirty. She shifted in the seat and focused on the road ahead.
The dashboard clock said 6:47 PM when she turned the engine off. The house was dark. It wouldn’t be the first time Jonny had forgotten to leave the upstairs landing light on. She retrieved her large damask travel bag from the boot. Halfway up the garden walk to her front door, she stopped.
The motion detector, which normally flooded the front garden with light when someone entered the gate, hadn’t triggered. She waved her arms, but no light. She retrieved her mobile from her pocket, swiped its flashlight app and held it high in front of her.
The front door was ajar.
Fiona fled back to the Range Rover, scrambled inside, and slammed the door shut. She started the engine, breathing deeply to control her panic. Where to go? The Ship pub was only two blocks away. There would be bright lights and people. Neighbours, maybe.
She parked at the pub less than a minute later, backing into a space in the row of cars that lined the street. Still behind the wheel, she dialled Jonny. Voicemail, damn the man. She ended the call without leaving a message. Her breathing was almost back to normal, and her thinking was clearing. The situation would be difficult to explain to the 999 operator. She’d keep it simple and to the point. They’d probably think she was daft if she mentioned murderous gangsters.
She identified herself as the wife of Met Commander Jonathan Hughes and gave her personal code word, Trooper. After determining she wasn’t in immediate danger, the operator said they would queue the call to the next available officers. It would probably be a half hour. They would notify Jonny.
But what if someone was lying in wait inside the house? She may have just placed officers at risk. Elaine would know what to do and say. She pressed the speed dial.
“Fiona, are you back in London yet?” Elaine’s voice was guarded.
“Thank God you answered. I need your help. I’m back, but the house has been burgled. What should I do?”
“Are you in danger? Where are you?”
“I didn’t see anyone, and I didn’t go in. I’m in the car park outside The Ship pub. It’s just down the road from our gate.”
“Okay. Stay where you are, and I’ll request an armed response team. How do you know the house was burgled?”
“The front door was open, and the lights on the security system didn’t come on. They should come on automatically.”
“Right. I’ll warn the officers.” Silence for a few seconds, then Elaine asked, “Have you called Jonny?”
Fiona sighed. “Yes, but he didn’t answer. He’s supposed to be on his way back from Oxford. If he left when he said he would, he’ll be here around nine thirty or so. The 999 operator said they would call him. Can you meet me here?”
“You’d be safer with an armed officer.”
“What would I say to an officer I don’t know? I can talk to you, Elaine!”
“I won’t abandon you. You don’t have to say anything more to the officers than you told the emergency operator. I’ll explain the danger to the gold commander and ask for an Armed Response Vehicle, but they may want someone besides me to be with you. Remember, I’m officially on leave. I’ll do my best to get assigned. Just trust me. I’ll call you back once it’s all in place.” Elaine rang off.
Trust me. In Fiona’s experience, honouring that phrase hadn’t paid off. Elaine seemed afraid to commit. What wasn’t she saying? Trust, my arse. It’s time to hide and watch out for myself.
Fiona looked up and down the road. The moon was almost full. To her left, Chiswick Bridge glowed above the Thames, crowned by the twinkling headlights of passing cars and buses. Tall, slender cypress swayed along the opposite bank of the river. Just across the road to her right, the abandoned Stag Brewery loomed dark, casting a deep shadow on a brick ramp at the foot of the street. Rowers and scullers used the ramp to carry their boats to and from the water. Perfect. She idled the Range Rover to just past the ramp, then backed slowly down. Straining her neck to see out her lowered window, she manoeuvred as close to the water line as she dared. From the driver’s seat she could watch the street in both directions, including the pub and its parking area. She raised the window, turned on the seat heater and watched.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Friday evening, Brentford
“Who’s the gold commander tonight?” Elaine needed to engage a higher authority as quickly as possible.
“Assistant Commissioner Collins is nominal gold,” the 999 operator replied.
Elaine gritted her teeth. “You said ‘nominal.’ Who’s his deputy?”
“Commander Kenwood, ma’am.”
“Please put me through.”
A few seconds later, Kenwood was on the line. She gave a quick recap of the night’s events and requested an ARV.
“An ARV for a burglary? Why?” Kenwood needed convincing before he sent armed officers to a scene.
“Because Commander Hughes’s wife may be in mortal danger, sir. If you can trust me, I’ll explain later. But we need action now.”
Kenwood didn’t reply immediately; she could hear his breath in her earpiece. Finally, he spoke. “Why did she call you and not Hughes? Aren’t you on compassionate leave?”
Was she on compassionate leave if she was working with Hughes? How much should she reveal? “I’m not yet back on the sick. She called Hughes, but got his voicemail. She called me next because … because I was involved in something that happened last week, sir. She trusts me.”
“Seems like an awful lot of trust flowing in your direction, Hope.” Kenwood was probably asking himself why he should believe her. It’s what she’d do. He needed more than just her word.
“Yes, sir. If you can contact Commander Hughes, tell him it’s about Operation Spectra. He can explain—”
“I have no idea what Spectra is.” Kenwood hesitated again. “Right. I’ll issue the orders. Hold the line while I conference emergency services.”
A few seconds later he was back on, talking with the 999 operator. “Send the clo
sest ARV, with one on standby. All available officers in Barnes Common and East Sheen to converge as backup and traffic control. DCI Hope is silver commander. Put it in action.”
“Executing now, sir,” the operator replied. “Sergeant J. Holloway is listed to be bronze commander, sir.”
Elaine took a deep breath and exhaled. She’d worked with Jamie Holloway and thought him to be among the best. “Thank you, sir.”
She dumped her half-eaten salad in the bin. On her way down the stairs, she pulled on her donkey jacket and clipped her radio to the collar. A couple of pats on the coat pockets made sure everything was in place—her asp snuggled in the right pocket next to her wallet and warrant card. She dialled Fiona as she walked to her car in the parking garage under her building.
“An ARV and several officers are en route to your house. They’ll seal it off. They’ve named me silver commander, so I’ll be there in twelve, maybe fifteen minutes. Stay put and watch for a police car. Where are you exactly?”
A pause before Fiona answered, “No, I’ll flash my lights when I see your BMW. No one else.”
So trust wasn’t flowing from Fiona. “Okay. Fair enough. Just sit tight. I’ll be blues and twos. Hang on a minute while I switch to hands-free.”
“I’m okay for now,” Fiona replied. “I’ll call if something happens.” She rang off.
Elaine turned on her blues as soon as she exited the parking garage gate. She turned left onto Brentford High Street, hit the siren button, and upshifted to second gear, holding the engine RPM high. Already, radio chatter was beginning as officers were advised of the situation and rerouted.
Elaine turned her attention to her driving. A clear space ahead, a parade of shops on the right. Up to third gear now. Carry-outs, a bookmaker’s, and a food store reeled past. Over the radio an ARV gave an estimated time on scene of four minutes. A bus clogged her lane a hundred yards ahead. She eased to the right for a better view, saw an oncoming car, and pulled back behind the huge vehicle. When the bus moved left at a stop, she was clear.
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