by Jane Casey
The incidents were too scattered to amount to riots, or anything like the disorder that had spread across the country in 2011. But the first night, there were twenty or so assaults on police officers, trouble on a small scale. The second night, there were seventy-three. The third night, the Met control room logged over two hundred individual incidents and all leave was cancelled.
‘Get off my television, you ranting fuckstool.’ Derwent flicked a paperclip at the TV in the corner of the office, where Geoff Armstrong was holding forth from the safety of the Westminster studio.
‘The commissioner has requested permission to use water cannon against the civilian population for the first time in British history—’
‘Although it has been used in Northern Ireland,’ the interviewer chipped in.
‘Yes, in very specific circumstances.’
And who cares about the Paddies anyway? I filled in silently. As usual, what was perfectly acceptable in Belfast or Derry would be an outrage in Southwark.
Armstrong was still going on. ‘Water cannon have never been used on the mainland in a public-order situation and it’s a sign that these communities are out of control. They are full of bored youths who have nothing better to do than get into trouble. They have no reason to work. We hand them whatever they want and then we’re surprised when they feel they’re entitled to take whatever they like.’
‘But the riots in 2011 caused two hundred million pounds worth of damage and harmed London’s reputation worldwide. The protestors or rioters or whatever you want to call them disrupted people’s businesses, their homes, their livelihoods – isn’t the commissioner bound to try to avoid the same situation occurring again?’
‘The commissioner is looking for a magic solution to a problem of his own making. His men are too scared to do their jobs because of politically correct nonsense about human rights. This all comes back to Levon Cole.’
‘Oh, here we go,’ Derwent said softly.
‘Levon ran from the police. He didn’t do what he was told. He behaved in a suspicious manner and he paid the price. Now, I am aware the matter is under investigation by various bodies so I shan’t comment in detail, but I think it is common knowledge that if he had done as he was told he would still be alive. There have to be consequences for not obeying the police, or there’s no point in having a police force and we should all be armed so we can defend ourselves.’
The interviewer was struggling to keep up. ‘But—but Levon Cole was an innocent teenager. Even the Metropolitan Police have admitted his death was a mistake and a tragedy.’
‘You say innocent. I’m not so sure.’ Armstrong smiled, as if to imply he knew the truth about Levon Cole. The truth was that he had been innocent, but you couldn’t slander the dead. Armstrong could say what he liked. ‘The fact is, this debate has been hijacked by Claudine Cole and her supporters who have their own agenda. We need to deal with the reality of the privileged poor who are costing hard-working taxpayers billions every year. We need to look at why they are choosing to engage in antisocial behaviour. We need to talk about what they need rather than what they want.’
The interviewer sounded shocked. ‘Claudine Cole is surely in a unique position to comment on this issue, though.’
‘She’s personally involved. Do not imagine that Mrs Cole can stand outside this situation as an impartial observer.’
‘Go back to university and concentrate on daydreaming about shagging your students, you prick.’ Belcott looked across at Derwent when he’d finished, transparently hoping for a nod of approval. He didn’t get it, but that was more because Derwent was lost in a trance of rage than because he disagreed with what Belcott had said. He was shifting from foot to foot like a lion preparing to spring.
‘I’m losing patience with this git.’
Una Burt paused on her way through the office. ‘We should count ourselves lucky that you didn’t hit him when you met him. That’s your usual technique, isn’t it?’ It was a nasty little dig, a reference to Derwent punching an attention-seeking advocate for fathers’ rights in front of television cameras.
‘Only when I’m provoked.’ Derwent gave her a thin smile that I recognised as trouble.
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘You’re safe. I don’t hit women.’ His attention was back on the screen.
There was a quick whisper followed by a stifled laugh. I didn’t have to look at Belcott to know that he had been making a comment about Una Burt and her femininity to whoever was standing nearest him. She knew it too. She was outwardly serene but her ears betrayed her, turning scarlet as if someone had poured boiling water over them.
‘I didn’t think that you’d be tempted to hit me, Josh. I like to think you have more sense than that.’
‘Do you?’ He turned to look at her for a long moment, then laughed, with that sudden easy charm that could be so devastating. ‘I don’t think I have much sense at the best of times, but I promise you, you’re in no danger. I’m not so sure I can say the same for Armstrong if I ever run across him again.’
‘Then we’ll have to try to keep you apart.’
‘Can we turn it off?’ I slid off the desk where I’d been sitting. ‘Who’s got the remote?’
‘I do.’ Derwent unfolded his arms, revealing that he’d been holding it all along.
‘Why are you torturing us like this?’ I asked.
‘Know your enemy.’ Derwent muted the volume but kept staring at the screen. ‘The best thing about Armstrong is that he’s such a twat. No one could take him seriously. And the kind of things that are coming out of the woodwork to throw things at us don’t give two shits for him and his rigorous intellectual debate. They only want to cause trouble.’
‘It’s just a question of whether they outnumber us, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t even say that.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘We’ve got to win, every time, or we lose the game for ever. They have to stay scared, whatever it takes. If that’s water cannon, so be it. Personally, I’d use flamethrowers, but that’s why I’m not the commissioner.’
‘That’s one reason.’ Godley had come in without me noticing. He didn’t wait for Derwent to respond, but disappeared into his office and shut the door behind him. I went two steps after him and stopped. All of the very good reasons why I couldn’t and shouldn’t tackle him started spinning around my head. Now probably wasn’t a good time. Besides, everyone was loitering in the office. They would see me knock on the door, and go in, and shut it behind me. There were enough rumours doing the rounds without me deliberately adding to them.
Eventually, I was going to have to acknowledge to myself that I was just being a big coward.
Armstrong disappeared from the screen, replaced with a shot of a boarded-up house streaked with smoke damage. Derwent turned away from the earnest reporter who was standing in front of it and walked over to look at the noticeboard that filled one wall of the room. I went to join him. He was staring at the pictures of the five policemen who had died. They were pinned up beside the map of the estate he had used to search for the guns, still covered with annotations and angry crosses. Tony Larch’s picture was further along, with a couple of others that I’d dug out of the archives and a description. There was an alert out for him across the UK but so far we had no confirmed sightings. He had come out of the shadows to kill and then faded away.
‘Frustrating, isn’t it?’
‘Yep.’ Derwent rubbed his chin absent-mindedly. ‘The boss still isn’t convinced we should be concentrating on Larch.’
I tried to sound casual, although I felt my nerves begin to jangle. ‘Still? Why’s that?’
‘He doesn’t see why Skinner would want to be involved in something like this.’
‘But Tom Fox identified Larch, and Larch only works for Skinner.’
‘He used to. John Skinner isn’t the man he was, though. Plenty of people trying to take over his territory, and those people have money. Larch would murder his grandmother for money.’
‘Has anyone asked Skinner about it?’
‘No. We don’t want him to know that we know he’s involved, if he is involved.’
‘Clear as mud,’ I said, and grinned at the look I got. ‘So what’s the plan?
‘We’ve got some intel sources down in HMP Lithlow where Skinner is banged up. They’re trying to spot how Skinner is communicating with the outside world. It’s clear he is getting messages in and out but no one knows exactly how. Now is a good time to watch him. He’s got to be running this one himself if it is him. He’s not the sort to delegate. And he’s exactly the sort to get a kick out of murdering coppers.’
‘Even ones who had nothing to do with locking him up?’
‘Easier that way, isn’t it? We can take precautions if we know we’re on his list. The whole of the Met can’t run scared, though.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘I wish I knew what had given him the idea to start this now. Maybe it was just getting Larch back from wherever he was holed up. Maybe this has been his plan all along and he was waiting for the right moment to set it in motion. Revenge for getting banged up for life. Payback for us for not rescuing his daughter. I don’t know. I’m not a criminal.’
I had some ideas. Glad that Derwent wasn’t a mind-reader, I wandered down past the pages and pages of death threats and lists of those who had made aggressive comments about the police in the past. I wanted to look at Terence Hammond’s picture. It was pinned a little way apart from the others, but on the same board. He looked doleful, in the image – all the way out the other side of serious to plaintive.
‘What are you thinking?’ Derwent was standing behind me.
‘That he’s been forgotten.’
‘I haven’t forgotten him.’
‘Maybe not, but we’re not doing very well, are we? We can’t prove that his death was unconnected with the TSG shooting. We can’t solve it, either. We’re stuck.’
‘Poor old Terence. Shot twice and no one cares. Maybe he should have been nicer when he was alive.’
‘Amy Maynard said he was kind to her.’
‘Kind?’
‘That was the word she used. She was at the memorial service.’
Derwent tapped a finger on his mouth, brooding. ‘Why was that?’
‘To support Vanessa, apparently.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘I didn’t actually see her speak to Vanessa. But then Vanessa was a bit busy.’
‘What was she doing?’
‘Jamie Driffield was there.’
Derwent actually growled, very low.
‘Your favourite person,’ I said. ‘I didn’t give him your love.’
‘I knew I should have gone.’
‘Oh, thank God you didn’t. You might have made a scene.’
‘I would definitely have made a scene. Were they together?’
I nodded.
‘Fuck. Driffield is such a little toe rag.’
‘You seem more concerned than Julie Hammond was.’
‘That wouldn’t be hard. Julie has other problems.’ Derwent rocked back and forth, his hands in his pockets. ‘I looked up what happened to Ben.’
‘Did you?’ I was surprised.
‘Guess who was driving.’
‘Julie.’
‘Terence.’
‘Oh.’ I considered it. ‘So, he felt guilty?’
‘Probably. And I don’t think Julie is the comforting kind. Might explain why he was in denial about the extent of Ben’s— shit, I don’t know what we’re allowed to call it now. Handicaps. Disabilities. Limitations.’ He snapped his fingers at me. ‘You get the idea.’
‘I do indeed. Is that a motive?’
‘For whom? For Julie? The car accident was a while ago. I’d be surprised.’
‘If she knew he was having an affair, though.’
‘If she did. Which brings me back to Amy Maynard.’
‘No.’ I was shaking my head. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Do we think she was in love with him?’
‘Yes. Emotionally involved, definitely. Remember how defensive she was about him? How he couldn’t possibly have been sleeping around?’
‘What if that was because he was shagging her?’
I leaned against the wall, my hands behind me. ‘You think you’re a good judge of women. Do you really believe Amy Maynard would have been sleeping with a married man?’
‘I know I am a good judge of women and honestly, I think she’s a virgin.’
‘Typical.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s always one or the other with you. Virgin or whore.’
‘I’m just basing my opinion on experience. I have a fair bit, as you probably know, Kerrigan.’
‘I keep hearing about it.’
Unconsciously, Derwent assumed an alpha male power stance, feet wide apart, arms folded. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say Amy Maynard is asexual. No interest at all in doing the deed.’
‘Is this because she didn’t fancy you?’
‘She didn’t even look, Kerrigan. And not in an I’m-too-shy-to-make-eye-contact-with-a-man way. No reaction at all.’
‘Yep. Definitely asexual,’ I said drily.
‘Then there’s the way she dresses. Jesus, she looks like a nun having a weekend off.’
‘You’re almost certainly underestimating her. Under the ankle-length skirts and the fluffy jumpers she’s probably wearing hold-ups.’
‘Like you, you mean?’
I watched the slow grin spread across his face and thought, resignedly, that I deserved it.
He snapped back to business. ‘I’m going to have another word with Amy, I think. If she did have a crush on him, she’d have been watching him. She might have noticed him being a bit too friendly with a teacher or a parent at the school. We’re pretty sure he wasn’t shagging anyone at work. That leaves the pub and the school, from what Julie said. I’ve said all along, if we can find the woman, we can find Hammond’s killer. Cherchez la femme.’
‘You always do,’ I murmured. ‘Don’t you think I should speak to her?’
‘No. You’ve had two tries. My turn.’
‘I think you’ll terrify her.’
‘I’ll be nice,’ Derwent said with a glint in his eye that was nothing short of concerning.
I was about to argue the point when the door of Godley’s office opened and swung back against the wall with a crash. The superintendent stood for a second on the threshold, scanning the room. ‘Josh.’
Derwent was beside him in a second. ‘Sir.’
‘Where’s Una?’
‘Somewhere. What’s wrong?’
Godley swallowed. He was ashen and his eyes looked sunken in his head. ‘Another police murder.’
‘Where? When?’ Derwent closed his eyes for a second, getting a grip on himself. ‘What happened, boss?’
‘A girl. Young. Twenty-two. Emma Wells. Just a PCSO.’ The information was coming in staccato bursts, as if Godley couldn’t form a full sentence or organise it in his own head.
‘A PCSO?’ Derwent said. ‘Shit.’
I felt a chill race over my skin. PCSOs were the lowest form of police life, less useful even than the volunteer Specials who at least had the power to make arrests. Police Community Support Officers dressed in uniforms and high-vis jackets, but their role was strictly pastoral. They existed to replace the bobbies on the beat that the public claimed they wanted – a presence in public, armed with a radio and not much else. Many of them were young, putting in time and getting what experience they could while they waited for recruitment to reopen so they could apply for proper police training.
‘Where was this?’ Derwent asked.
‘Leytonstone.’ It was east London, out in the suburbs.
‘What happened?’ I asked, coming closer. Behind me, I was aware of the team standing up, moving towards Godley. There was a hush in the room that was unusual.
‘I don’t know yet. We need to get th
ere. Local CID are securing the scene for us at the moment.’
‘Was she shot?’ Derwent asked abruptly.
‘What? No. No, she wasn’t. Stabbed, I think. She was lured to an empty house and killed. The neighbours didn’t hear anything.’ Godley winced, as if he was in physical pain, just thinking about it. ‘Her sergeant went looking for her when she didn’t respond over the radio.’
‘How did this happen?’ Derwent asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Godley looked across the room to where Una Burt was stumping in. ‘Una, a word. Josh, get a team together. Six of you for starters. Anyone we can spare off the TSG investigation.’
‘Right you are.’
Godley stood back to allow Una Burt into his office and shut the door behind her. I stood where I was for a moment, staring at the blank, smooth wood. I wasn’t really capable of moving from that spot. Not while I was being buffeted with wave after wave of regret and guilt. If I’d said something to him. If I’d put my career to one side and concentrated on doing my job. If I’d run that particular hare to earth – even if it was only to prove to myself that I’d been wrong and Godley wasn’t implicated in any way – I might have been able to set Godley’s duplicity to one side. Then I might have been able to concentrate on the TSG shooting, or Terence Hammond’s death. Then I might have traced Tony Larch. Then I might have been able to keep this nameless young PCSO from walking to her death.
‘Wake up, Kerrigan.’ Derwent’s voice was rough. ‘Do you want to come along or not? Plenty of paperwork for you to get on with here.’
I wanted to be anywhere but at another crime scene where the victim was a police officer.
‘I’ll come,’ I said.
Chapter 20
I’d always heard you should buy the worst house in the best street you could afford. That, presumably, was what the estate agents who were selling 23 Rossetti Road were hoping, because it had zero kerb appeal. Rossetti Road was a mixture of pre-war terraces and post-war redevelopment. Whoever had built the bungalows had stopped at four. Two had been bought and refurbished extensively. One was dated but in good condition. One, number 23, was a wreck. It was the worst house on the road by a mile, even without the rake of emergency vehicles parked outside it. It was tiny, just one bedroom. It would have been a 1950s homeowner’s modest dream, but it looked as if it had been unoccupied for a few years. The front garden was overgrown with weeds. Even they looked dispirited, as if the soil was too poor for dandelions and thistles to thrive. The window frames were rotten, the paint flaking and peeling. Grey net curtains hung in the windows, their edges tattered.
