Courting Death

by Elleby Harper

  “I’ll handle this, DI Standing,” she said stiffly. “Why don’t you do a thorough search of the kitchen.”

  Quinn gave a careless shrug. “I’ll check the outhouse at the back first. The lav’s always a sure bet for stashing illegal substances,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and moving past the central stairway to the back door at the end of the kitchen.

  She heard Reuben snicker. “Jammy bastard looks like he just fell out of a warm bed and a hot woman,” he mumbled to Idris and Eli. Reuben breathed steaming air over his fingertips. The wind chill factor inside the squalid digs wasn’t much less than outside.

  “Well, as the only happily married officer on the team, don’t begrudge Quinn that advantage,” Eli said. “It’s one of the few pleasures of being a married man after all.”

  “And watch your mouth, Reuben. You’re jumping to conclusions about why Quinn’s rocked up late. He could’ve been stuck in a traffic jam.” Idris’ voice was sharp enough to draw Bex’s attention away from the moody youth with his ratty, tangled dreadlocks.

  The youth spat in her direction. “Ain’t got no dealer. Never seen that shit on the table before.” He nodded at the others huddled around. “Ain’t that so?”

  There was a murmur of concurrence and Bex sighed. Denying the evidence before their eyes and refusing to name the dealer were stock responses. It would have been nice to be surprised with an honest confession for a change.

  “So, you’ve never seen these bags before? You’ve never laid a finger on these bags?”

  “That’s right. We just squatting here. Must’ve belonged to the people here before us.”

  “You’ve convinced me. I’m so convinced I’ll run a DNA check on the baggies to prove your innocence. I’m sure that test won’t reveal a fingerprint–”

  “Check this out!” Quinn’s voice cut through her words. Standing in the opening of what passed for a living room, he held out a handgun, a sawn-off shotgun and two boxes of ammunition in his gloved hands. “These were stashed in the backyard lav. These blokes are either running an armory or they’re planning something more hardcore than a drug deal.”

  “Shit, be careful! Those are loaded,” Idris said as Quinn dumped the weapons on the table beside the pile of drugs. “We’d better call for back up if there are arms on the premises,”

  “Do that, Idris,” Bex said. “There may be armed gang members that we haven’t rounded up.”

  The teens handcuffed inside had been unarmed, but that didn’t mean other gang members weren’t loitering on the outside. Without the regulation Glock she was used to carrying as a New York detective, Bex felt vulnerable. The training she had undertaken with the other detectives recruited from various other countries to the London Met had emphasized the power of verbal interaction over armed confrontation to de-escalate dangerous situations. She wasn’t sure she was totally convinced. Besides, old habits died hard.

  “I’ll scout around the bedrooms upstairs in case there’s anything more,” Quinn said, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “We’ve already checked upstairs, you berk!” Idris called out, but he spoke to Quinn’s disappearing back.

  A door slammed. Bex exchanged a concerned look with Idris. Had that sound come from upstairs? The door between the living room and stairs was ajar and the only other door on the ground floor was the backdoor accessed via the kitchen beyond the stairs.

  “Call for back up now,” Bex hissed.

  Through the open doorway a shadow wavered across the wall opposite the central stairs separating the living room from the kitchen, the figure remaining out of sight. Bex reacted instinctively, snatching the handgun from the table.

  “Stop! Police! Put your hands where I can see them!” she yelled.

  Footsteps sounded from the top of the stairs. If Quinn came down those stairs he would come face to face with a potentially armed gang member.

  Bex sprang forward, shoving herself against the wall. Over her heartbeat she heard the soft thud of Quinn’s footfalls. Holding the gun steady with her other palm, she lunged away from the wall, pushing the door fully open to catch sight of a hooded figure lurking by opening to the kitchen. Much less than twenty feet away.

  “Put your weapon down! Hands where I can see them!”

  Quinn’s leather boots hove into view, followed by his denim-clad legs. Bex’s finger caressed the trigger as the unknown figure slowly lifted his arms. She strained to see if he held a weapon. Abruptly Quinn’s foot lashed out through the stair balustrade, striking her wrist and splintering the wood. The handgun flew upwards as the assailant jolted forward, making a dash for the front door.

  Reuben leapt up to tackle him, knocking against the table and scattering drug bags in his wake. Idris joined him. Using his bulk, he brought his elbow slamming into the youth’s back to send him sprawling facedown. Reuben yanked his arms back and snapped on speed cuffs.

  Quinn bent to pick the pistol from the floor.

  “Reuben, put this back with the evidence. Check and see if the offender is carrying a weapon.”

  He handed the gun to Reuben as Idris hauled the handcuffed youth to his feet, ignoring the string of angry curses being hurled at him. The offender’s nose was bleeding where his face had smashed into the wooden floor.

  “I’ll take this pathetic piece of shit back to the others,” Idris said.

  Quinn closed the door, leaving him alone with Bex in the narrow space in front of the stairs.

  “Bloody hell, what were you thinking, storming in here with a weapon? He wasn’t even armed!”

  Bex took a deep breath, adrenaline leaving her muscles shaking. She wanted to take a step back, but her calves were already pressed against the treads of the staircase. In the confined space, the odor of rising damp was more pungent. She nursed her wrist. It felt like Quinn had bruised the bone.

  “I stormed in here to save your sorry ass. I didn’t know if was carrying. He raised his arm so I thought you were in danger.”

  “No, your actions put me in danger! When police bring guns into the equation it’s inevitable that some one’s going to get hurt. I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but try de-escalating a situation instead of ramping up the aggression. You Yanks tend to shoot first, talk later, but that brute force gets civilians killed. We don’t police that way here.” He punctuated the last sentence with several stabs of his finger in the air.

  “Agreed, cops in New York get shot at so I’ve learned to be prepared.” Bex’s voice was colder than the weather outside. As much as she hated to admit it, Quinn had hit the nail on the head. Her years of training on the NYPD had taken over as soon as she’d suspected the perp was armed. A few weeks of British training, a few months of practical policing in London, hadn’t removed her drive to react with force against potential force.

  “That’s the trouble,” Quinn barged in. “Cops here aren’t afraid of being shot, we’re afraid to get it wrong and be criticized for using undue force. I think it would be better for everyone on the team if you kept your instincts in check.” Quinn stared her down. His eyes, the intense blue of a Greek sky, did not twitch or blink.

  “You’re forgetting yourself, DI Standing,” Bex snapped. What Quinn was really saying was that the Youth Crimes Team would be better off without her. Quinn had never disguised his contempt for the exchange program that enabled Bex to cross the Atlantic to join the Met. It was an attitude he brought to work every day. Today’s effort was more strident than usual and it clearly ended the small amount of good will racked up from their last major case when she had rescued his wife, Isla, from almost certain death.

  “I beg to differ, DCI Wynter.” His blue eyes darkened to black as they locked on Bex. She felt a prickle of apprehension at his vehemence. “We could’ve had a fatal police shooting on our hands, and that’s something the London Met hasn’t had in years. Well done!”

  Bex flushed at his biting sarcasm. “You’re on notice, Standing.” The words tasted sour in her mouth. This was n
ot how she wanted to lead her team, but Quinn had backed her into a corner. “You are way out of line. I’m your superior officer and, whether you like me or not, you owe my position respect.”

  “I’ll respect someone who earns it. Put me on notice all you want, it doesn’t change the situation. You should never have joined the Met.”

  He brushed past her and slammed the door, leaving her alone in the dim recess.

  Chapter 5

  December 1 Friday

  Detective Superintendent Sophie Dresden fixed Bex with a dispassionate stare over the top of her reading glasses. “You’re sure you want to make a formal complaint about Detective Inspector Quinn Standing? That will be noted on his personnel file and it will also mean drawing up a Management Action Plan with a list of check boxes to tick off before the issue will be considered rectified.”

  Dresden’s salon-styled hair and butterscotch eyes wouldn’t have looked out of place amongst a whist table of grandmothers. Someone more discerning might notice the sharp nose and furrowed brow to peg her as a Girl Guide leader. Bex had learnt over the past few months that her superior’s mild appearance was deceptive. Dresden ruled the Youth Crimes Team with an implacable hand, and Bex suspected it was her stepping stone for a more ambitious agenda. Police Commissioner Sophie Dresden perhaps?

  “Before you answer, I should inform you that DI Standing wants to issue his own complaint in the matter of an unwarranted use of firearms by you in this morning’s arrest.”

  Bex’s eyes wandered around the stark office. Situated on the third floor of New Scotland Yard it was little more than a glassed in box holding a desk, computer and a bookcase filled with heavy legal tomes behind Dresden’s stiff back. There was not a personal photo or item anywhere on the wood-grained desk or neutral-toned walls.

  Finally, she ended the awkward silence between them with a cautious, “I see.”

  “I hope you do, Wynter, because to me it’s beginning to look a lot like a kids’ squabble. Tit for tat may be very well on the school grounds or even in the political arena, but here at the London Met, the top brass look on that kind of behavior as very poor form.

  “Now, I fully understand that DI Standing is not a team player. I’m willing to bet the majority of his supervisors would concur on that. I also suspect that some of his actions verge on maverick behavior, so you do have your work cut out for you. That being said, Standing was placed in this team by direct order from Chief Superintendent Titus. My goal is to prove to Titus that we can achieve what other sections have failed to do: turn Standing into a productive team member.”

  Dresden removed her glasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb. Her fingers were long and delicate and her fingernails were French manicured. When she dropped her hand, the eyes that met Bex’s were hard and challenging.

  “Wynter, when your NYPD Captain recommended you for this position he said failure was never an option for you. Putting Standing on notice will be as much a blot on your leadership as his policing.”

  Bex paused. Dresden had stated her goal: to rehabilitate Quinn into a perfect police specimen in order to impress Titus. The implication being that, as Quinn’s superior officer, Bex was responsible for Quinn’s behavior. Dresden had reminded her that she was a fighter, not a quitter.

  “Since no firearms were discharged, I can write Standing’s complaint off. Why don’t you sleep on your decision, Wynter?” Dresden offered Bex a half-smile of encouragement.

  Bex’s forehead wrinkled as she processed Dresden’s thinly veiled demand for acquiescence. Dresden wasn’t the only one in the office with an agenda. If she was going to scratch Dresden’s back by retracting her complaint on Quinn, maybe she could induce Dresden to play nicely with her own pet project.

  For the past four months Dresden had fielded a continual stream of cases targeting youth gangs around the greater London area to the Youth Crimes Team. They were awash in drug heists, illegal weapons hauls and burglaries and had charged and carted off dozens of young offenders. Most of whom would be returned to the streets after short stints in Her Majesty’s young offender institutions to recommence the crime cycle. Bex’s idea was to challenge this punitive versus rehabilitative view of juvenile crime and she had mentioned it to Dresden.

  “Yes I will sleep on it, Ma’am. I did wonder if you’d had a chance to reconsider the idea I put forward last week of a youth drop-in center targeting at risk teens.”

  Dresden’s smile disappeared, replaced with a flat, steely look that intimated her time was short and her attention was needed on more important matters.

  “Remind me again, what it is you propose as an alternative to incarceration, Wynter?”

  “My idea is we’d do better by winning these kids’ confidence in us instead of being heavy handed and hauling them off to jail. Evidence shows us that incarcerating kids is futile. Once the shock value’s worn off all they do is learn more bad habits from other inmates, then simply end up back on the streets in gangs.

  “I’ve had experience in New York with a club for troubled teens. For the boys, especially, learning to fight properly gave them a safe outlet for aggression that’s accumulated from years of neglect and abuse. If we can divert that energy into more positive channels we might have a chance to turn their lives around before they become habitual criminals–”

  Dresden held up a hand, making Bex pause in mid-flow. Bex knew Dresden would have her counter arguments lined up like ducks in a row, as her landlady Georgie Richards would say. She felt fully armed to shoot Dresden’s ducks down in flames.

  When Dresden’s face assumed a thoughtful look, Bex forced herself to remain silent. Dresden’s eyebrow quirked skeptically in her direction.

  “What you’re saying essentially is that you’d gather these kids in one spot like a holding pen so you can whip them into shape to fit nicely back into society?”

  Bex opened her mouth to object to Dresden’s phrasing, but the older woman cut her off.

  “You’ll need to provide a written proposal explaining how you’d cover the costs of a premises, equipment, any volunteers, et cetera. There’s no money from the Met for this type of activity. You’re going to have to put in the time and effort to get it off the ground. If you get a pitch for this scheme of yours back to me before the end of the month I’ll see what I can do about greasing some wheels for you.”

  Gaping in surprise, Bex tried to gather her scattered thoughts at Dresden’s unexpected capitulation.

  “Well? Was there anything else?”

  “No, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am. I will get a proposal to you ASAP.” Bex stood up.

  “Good, I’ll see you tomorrow night at the charity fundraiser. Oh, and you’d better bring a partner. It always looks better at these sort of events.”

  Bex’s eyes glazed in alarm. The Mary Miriam Trust was holding a charity event to raise funds for homeless youth this Christmas and Bex, as head of the Youth Crimes Team, had been directed to attend as part of the token police presence. She knew she was expected to toe a party line, emphasizing the importance London Metropolitan Police put on helping youth, but Dresden had failed to mention the need for a partner.

  “A partner? What’s wrong with a single woman attending a function on her own?”

  Dresden’s carefully groomed eyebrows rose at Bex’s agitation. “A major social event is like Noah’s ark. It works better with couples. You don’t have to bring a romantic partner, Wynter. Ask one of the team if you’re short on candidates. Just make sure they own a tux. It’s black tie after all.”

  * * *

  On the short walk between New Scotland Yard and the Bridesmead Criminal Investigation Department where the Youth Crimes Team had their new office space, Bex’s stomach tied itself in knots. Dresden’s words replayed in her head: You don’t have to bring a romantic partner. Ask one of the team if you’re short on candidates.

  Bex had worked hard over the past four months keeping friendly overtures from her team at bay. During
the training phase of her recruitment she had refused all social invitations from her fellow expatriate recruits until they eventually dried up. Dividing her days between work and the gym, she always managed to excuse herself when her team headed out to the Sail and Ale, the local pub on the corner opposite Bridesmead CID.

  Dresden had read her situation correctly: her list of candidates to accompany her tomorrow night was slim. Could she make Dresden believe all the members had plans for the night? Somehow, she didn’t think Dresden would accept any excuses. So, what were her options?

  She felt most comfortable asking either Eli and Reuben, whose mother, Georgie, was her landlady. The problem was she knew Eli was headed north to Liverpool to spend the weekend with his daughters. Recalling Reuben’s work attire of skinny-legged jeans and collarless, plain leather biker jacket with its chunky zips and metal rivets, she doubted his idea of a tux would meet Dresden’s standards. That left Idris and Quinn as candidates.

  Since she’d rather ask a homeless man off the street to accompany her than approach Quinn, she realized that Idris had drawn the short straw. She consoled herself with the thought that his immaculate dress sense meant he likely not only owned a tuxedo but would be pleased to wear it. Whether he would be pleased about wearing it while out with her was anyone’s guess.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday 2 December

  As Isla shifted in her seat to avoid the drooping slump of a drunken offender awaiting a lift home, she cursed herself for being too conscientious. Harley Carroll had confessed to his crimes so it wasn’t her job to pursue his case with the Barnet CID. Yet Harley’s odd behavior about his father had haunted her sleep and left her disquieted enough to request an interview with Detective Inspector Rory Alban to discuss Harley’s case.

  For twenty minutes she had sat watching officers come and go, while the desk officer argued with a civilian at the front counter. Time was money in her profession and right now her pounds were flying out the window.