by Ellis, Tim
‘I’m at Margravine Gardens.’
‘Very nice for you.’
‘Not really. When we looked inside the first Haig evidence box, we found that the seal on the bag containing the DNA had been broken.’
‘Jesus. How is that even possible?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out . . . We’re going to find out. I’m sitting here waiting for Perkins and a computer specialist to arrive.’
‘What about the man you were . . . ?’
‘I’ve got him handcuffed to a metal shelf.’
‘He’s responsible for . . .’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And you’ve handcuffed him to a metal shelf?’
‘I had to do something. I took his mobile phone off him as well. I didn’t want him phoning people until I’d had a chance to . . .’
‘A chance to what? Torture him?’
‘I suppose you’ve got a better idea?’
‘You’re meant to think first and then act.’
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. You’ll be arrested and Haig will be released.’
‘We can’t let either of those things happen.’
‘We?’
‘I’m doing this for you.’
‘Oh, so it’s my fault you arrested an innocent man?’
‘I’ve got to go, Perkins is here.’
‘Phone me when you’re free again. We’ll try and work something out.’
The phone went dead.
God, she was a crazy bitch. The only way she could get away with handcuffing the CCRC guy to a metal shelf was if he was somehow involved in contaminating the evidence. Was he? What was his name? He’d have to ask when she rang him again. Ruby could check him out. She could also get his phone records. If they could find evidence against him then they might be able to save her career.
The train screeched into Hammersmith. He was ejected from the tubular monstrosity like a piece of effluent and swept along in the sewer of humanity until he bobbed up on the surface.
The cafe was busy again. He found a table and Kiri came up and kissed him in-between taking someone’s order and clearing a table.
‘Coffee?’
‘What would I ever do without you?’
‘That’s a very good question, which we can discuss in bed later.’
The evening crowd gradually filled up the spaces available.
A mug of coffee appeared.
He stared out of the window at the cold wind-blown people looking like models for an LS Lowry painting.
What about the officers who were responsible for the evidence in the warehouse? He couldn’t get his head around Molly falsely imprisoning someone without reasonable grounds. What the hell was she thinking of?
She rang again.
‘Okay. Perkins is here dusting everything for fingerprints and taking swabs for any DNA, and the computer spec’ is interrogating the system to find out who opened the storage unit.’
‘What’s the man’s name from the CCRC?’
‘George Swash.’
He wrote the name down in his notebook.
‘What does he do at the CCRC?’
‘He’s the Records Manager, apparently.’
‘And you say he’s handcuffed to a metal shelf?’
‘You sound as though you don’t believe me.’
‘What I don’t believe, is that you’ve actually handcuffed an innocent man to a metal shelf. Even I’ve heard of the Human Rights Act.’
A short laugh ricocheted down the line. ‘Didn’t you know, people are guilty until proven innocent now?’
‘So it would seem. I’m interested in how long you intend to keep Swash falsely imprisoned?’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘Asking me for suggestions after you’ve committed a heinous crime is not ideal. You could go on the run.’
‘I’m glad I rang you now.’
‘Have you thought about him using the toilet? Feeding him? Is he married with kids? Are people expecting him back at the CCRC, or at home? What about the warehouse staff? What time do they go home? How many people know what you’ve done?’
‘Which question do you want me to answer first?’
‘All of them.’
‘I suppose I should turn myself in.’
‘Let’s not be so hasty. Do you think he’s involved? What prompted you to slap the handcuffs on him anyway?’
‘I just got the feeling it was all a set up. We were meant to find what we found. The one piece of evidence that proves Haig raped Chelsea Mey has been compromised. Haig knew that, and that’s why he’s asked for a review now.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean Swash is involved.’
‘I know. I suppose I panicked. But someone at the CCRC must be involved. There’s absolutely no reason Haig’s case should have been passed to the review stage – he was a hundred and fifty percent guilty. So, someone there must be involved.’
‘You say you’ve got his phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me the number.’
She found it and read it off.
‘I’ll get my people to check it out.’
‘Your people? Do you have people now?’
He smiled. ‘AI Investigations.’
‘Maybe I should come and work for you.’
‘Sorry, we don’t employ criminals.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Listen. Why not arrest him for proper and take him back to the station.’
‘Crap! I should have thought of that.’
‘I’m sure it’s an option that is easily overlooked when you’re a police officer.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Don’t mention it. And while you’re trampling all over his rights, you might want to look through his phone book and see if there’s . . .’
‘Well, well, well.’
‘Go on?’
‘Kelly Upshaw.’
‘In his phonebook?’
‘Yes.’
‘It doesn’t necessarily prove anything.’
‘I know, but I feel much better about arresting him now. He’s involved, we just have to prove it.’
‘Within twenty-four hours.’
‘I’ll make an application to hold him for ninety-six hours.’
‘And don’t forget the phone call he’s legally entitled to – that up to now you’ve denied him.’
‘Yeah, that’s going to be a problem. He’ll probably phone Kelly Upshaw and the cat will be out of the bag – sometimes the law sucks.’
‘There’s no way you can prevent him making that call, so don’t even think about it.’
‘I know.’
‘Right, I have work to do. Phone me if anything changes.’
There was a palpable silence on the line. Then, ‘Thanks, Randall.’
He knew how hard it was for her to say that. ‘Look after yourself, Molly.’
The line went dead.
She was damaged goods . . . but weren’t they all? How could it be otherwise? Tip-toeing through the darkness searching for the light was a crazy way to live a life. Often, there was no light, and there never would be. You came face to face with something that was more terrifying than the darkness – your own pathetic mortality.
He phoned Ruby.
‘You’ve got mail.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks. I haven’t checked yet, but I have more work for you.’
‘More work? I’m beginning to feel like an employee. Those tax bastards will come knocking. I’ll have to move house, change my name, employ an accountant, get an offshore bank account.’
‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’
‘What – getting an offshore . . . ?’
‘No, becoming an employee.’
‘I don’t . . .’
‘Not in the strictest sense of the word, but when I’m on a case I need back-up.’
‘Oh, you want me to be your partner?’
‘That’s
certainly an interesting idea, but it’s not really what I had in mind.’
‘Go on then?’
‘If I pay you three to five hundred pounds every time I ask you to do something for me, you’ll be a millionaire in no time.’
‘I’ve always wanted my own island in the Caribbean.’
‘The trouble with that scenario is that while you’re slopping about in your jacuzzi and drinking fuzzy navel cocktails through a straw I’ll be slurping meths from a broken bottle and living in a cardboard box.’
‘Sacrifices have to be made.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘I pay you a monthly figure – to be negotiated – regardless of how much work you do for me. Some months the work might be heavy, some months light – you still get the money.’
‘I do stuff for other people.’
‘You can still do that, but I take priority when I need you.’
The line went dead.
He wondered if he’d burned his bridges with her and threw back the last of his coffee.
His phone jangled.
‘Okay. Five thousand pounds.’
He laughed.
‘No, don’t laugh. It was a serious starting position.’
‘One thousand pounds.’
She laughed back, but it was a mocking laugh. ‘Split the difference – two thousand five hundred.’
‘A thousand five hundred.’
‘Two thousand – my final offer.’
Which is what he would have offered her in the first place. It was a quarter of his wages from AI Investigations, but he didn’t need the money anyway – he had more than enough to live on. ‘We have a deal.’
‘Wicked. I’ll send you an invoice through Google Checkout each month.’
‘Fine.’
‘What’s this “more work” you’ve got for me?’
‘George Swash. Write down this telephone number.’ He read it out. ‘He’s the Records Manager at the CCRC. I want to know if he’s involved with Haig or Upshaw.’
‘On it.’
‘And . . .’
‘Yeah?’
He told her about Jim O’Connor being abandoned, adopted and how Megan and Marvin had illegally claimed him as their own biological child.
‘Nifty.’
‘See what you can find out will you?’
‘I’ll do what I can, but we’re talking pre silicon chip, you know.’
‘Also . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll send you a film later . . .’
‘I love films.’
‘You won’t like this one. It’s a security DVD of vehicles entering and leaving the Blackwall Tunnel. I need the names and addresses of the owner of every vehicle in the order they went in and came out, and . . .’
‘I’m beginning to feel like a bona fide member of the chain gang.’
‘. . . You might also want to compare vehicles going in with those coming out, and the time each took to travel through the tunnel.’
She yawned.
The phone went dead.
He wondered who Ruby really was.
Chapter Eleven
‘George Swash,’ she said standing in front of him. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice. You don’t have to . . .’
The two constables were sitting around a table in the kitchen area chatting. The computer spec’ – Angela Rudrum – had her head and half her body in the cage where the computer server was located, and Sergeant Cooke had taken Perkins to the storage unit where the evidence in the David Haig case had been secured and subsequently compromised.
His eyes opened wide. ‘You’re arresting me?’
‘. . . say anything, but it may harm your defence if you . . .’
‘Me? I haven’t done anything, and you have no evidence that can prove otherwise.’
She didn’t bother finishing. ‘I think you know your rights by now.’
‘Damn right I do, and I have the right to make a phone call.’
‘Who are you going to ring?’
‘I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘Give me the number, and I’ll ring it for you.’
‘That’s not how it works either.’
She activated his phone. ‘Do you have the person’s name in your phonebook?’
‘You shouldn’t even have my phone. Stay out of . . .’
‘It wouldn’t be . . . Kelly Upshaw from the Hammersmith Herald would it?’
He opened his mouth, but closed it again without saying anything.
‘The same Kelly Upshaw who’s running a campaign to get David Haig freed?’
‘Your career is finished, Inspector.’
‘Only if you believe that I wouldn’t break the law to put you behind bars.’
She used her own phone to ring the Duty Sergeant and arrange for his collection. ‘And make a note that he’s already had his phone call and has declined a solicitor.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Swash said after she’d ended the call.
‘I just did. In the end, it’ll be my word against yours.’
‘There are laws. You have to . . .’
‘I see. So the laws apply to me, but not to you or Haig?’
He didn’t answer.
‘What I’ve noticed in my time as a police officer is that sometimes the law doesn’t work as it was intended to. Sometimes there are people who think they can twist the law to suit themselves. And that sometimes the law needs a kick up the arse to work properly.’
She’d wasted enough time here. She needed to get back to the station. She had a case to solve. It was five fifteen. She said she’d meet Tony there to catch up before she called Father Fleming.
‘How much longer?’ she said to Rudrum.
‘It depends whether you want me to do the job properly, or just say that I have.’
The one thing she hated more than anything else was smart arses. ‘Are you any relation to Red Rum?’
Rudrum ignored her and carried on working.
She rang Perkins.
‘Hello?’
‘How much longer are you going to be?’
‘It depends . . .’
‘Well, I’ve got to go back to the station.’
‘What about the man you’ve got chained up?’
‘There’s a meat wagon on its way to transport him to the station . . . and for your information, I used handcuffs not chains.’
‘I’ll probably be another half an hour. What about . . . just a minute.’
She sighed into the phone so that he could hear. ‘Well?’
‘Sergeant Cooke wants to know if she can lock up the warehouse when everyone’s finished.’
‘Tell her she may as well leave the doors wide open for all the good it . . .’
‘I’ll tell her yes then.’
‘Have you found anything?’
‘No fingerprints. It’s obvious everything has been wiped clean, otherwise there would be the fingerprints of the person who put the boxes in the storage unit in the first place.’
‘DNA?’
‘I’m taking swabs now, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
‘You may as well check what’s in the evidence bag as well. Have we still got Haig’s DNA, or has it been swapped for something else?’
‘I’ll check.’
‘I hope Red Rum finds something.’
She heard him laugh. ‘Don’t let her hear you call her that. She hates people calling her that.’
‘Too late.’
She ended the call.
The door buzzer sounded. She could see two male uniformed officers on the CCTV screen.
‘Yes?’
‘We’re here to collect the prisoner.’
‘Wait.’
She unlocked the handcuffs Sergeant Cooke had put on Swash’s wrists, and replaced them with a plastic cable tie from her jacket pocket.
‘I’d like my phone back now.’
‘I’m sure you would.’
After calling for one of the two warehouse staff to come and open the security gate, she gripped Swash’s upper arm and propelled him towards the main door.
‘You’ll never get away with this you know.’
The corner of her mouth went up. ‘I have the law on my side.’
She shoved him into the arms of the waiting constables. ‘Tell the Duty Sergeant – no phone call. If he’s allowed to talk to anyone – testicles will roll. Are we clear?’
The older of the two officers smiled. ‘We certainly are, Ma’am. No phone call – no testicles.’
‘I’ll be along shortly to brief the Duty Sergeant.’
They escorted Swash to the police van and deposited him in the back before driving away.
She made a phone call on Swash’s phone.
‘Hello, George. How did it go?’
Molly didn’t say anything.
‘George . . . is that you? . . . George?’
‘I’m coming for you next, Miss Upshaw,’ she whispered into the phone.
‘I’m sorry? Who is this?’
She ended the call and switched off the phone. There, George Swash had made his one phone call.
As she navigated through the rush hour traffic back to the station she gave serious thought to her future. She’d already executed three of the Hansen brothers. Now, here she was again shifting between the light and the dark like a wraith When she’d first joined the police she’d been full of righteous fervour for people’s rights, the rule of law and justice for everyone. What had happened to her? When had she changed? Because she had changed. Was she becoming a dirty copper? Weren’t those the ones who feathered their own nests? The ones who jumped into bed with the criminals. She wasn’t doing that. She was in a different place. She was a different kind of dirty copper – a vigilante, an avenging angel.
The rules of the game had changed. And as they’d changed, so she’d had to change as well. Criminals never played by the rules, and yet the police were straight-jacketed by more and more rules. One only had to look at the struggle to deport Abu Qatada. God, it made her so angry. When she saw the news she’d shout at the screen, ‘Whose fucking country is this? Just get rid of the bastard.’
A lot of the coppers she’d joined up with had refused to change – they’d simply walked away. The obstacles had become insurmountable. They’d reached a nadir in their lives and saw no point in carrying on.
