Death Sentence

by Sheryl Browne

  ‘Yes.’ Matthew kneaded his forehead. ‘No.’ He sighed, knowing that, whatever he said, he was digging a bigger hole and dropping Steve squarely in it. ‘I’m not asking you to do that, Steve. I—’

  ‘That’s exactly what you’re asking me to do, mate, and you know it!’ Steve shouted furiously. ‘I think it’s about time you shared, don’t you?!’

  Matthew eyed him quizzically.

  ‘You and Sullivan, you two obviously have a history, one that runs much deeper than you’re letting on. I think you need to fill me in, don’t you, sir?’

  Matthew heard the derisory edge to the salutation and really couldn’t blame him. ‘It’s … difficult.’ He shrugged evasively.

  ‘Difficult how?’ Matthew could feel Steve’s eyes drilling into him.

  ‘Complicated,’ Matthew amended, searching for a way to divert the conversation.

  Steve wasn’t about to be diverted, though. ‘Personal?’

  Matthew dragged a hand over his neck. ‘Some.’

  ‘You’re not giving me a lot of waggle room, here, Matt. I’m mean, it’s either turn a blind eye or go to the DCI. One of us is going to be stuffed and I’m not going to—’

  ‘Dammit!’ Matthew slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. ‘He killed my daughter! Okay! Now, for Christ’s sake, can you just drop it?!’

  ‘What?’ Steve turned to him astounded.

  Feeling a definite wheeze in his chest, Matthew tried to breathe through it. ‘Lily,’ he clarified, guessing there was no way now that Steve would, or could, drop it, ‘She was with Becky. They …’ he faltered.

  ‘How?’ Steve asked, clearly winded.

  ‘Hit and run.’ Matthew tightened his white-knuckled grip on the wheel. ‘No witnesses, no substantial evidence. Sullivan was doing time. He set it up, though. As sure as God made fucking little green apples, it was him.’

  Steve furrowed his brow. ‘But you had nothing to go on?’

  Matthew laughed sardonically. ‘Nothing but good old intuition, as they say.’

  Steve exhaled heavily. ‘Blimey.’

  ‘So, is it personal?’ Matthew shrugged ambiguously, his gut clenching as his mind played over the graphic images of that Godforsaken day. ‘Some people would probably say so. The thing is, though, whatever his method, drugs, guns, knives, cars, his fists, he’d do the same to someone else’s daughter, wife, sister. We both know it. And he’ll just keep right on doing it, until someone stops him.’

  Steve nodded slowly. ‘No disrespect, sir,’ he said, ‘but don’t you think that someone should be someone other than you? That you should maybe step away from it?’

  ‘Walk away, you mean?’ Matthew glanced at him. ‘The way I see it, that would mean personal getting in the way of putting that bastard away.’

  Matthew drove on, as Steve fell silent, obviously contemplating his best course of action.

  ‘So,’ he said gruffly, after a moment, ‘what’s the plan, assuming you don’t actually want to stitch him up?’

  Matthew felt a huge surge of relief flooding through him. Steve had obviously decided not to go to the DC, at least not yet.

  ‘We pay his girls a visit, all of them. Talk to them. Hope they can give us some kind of lead regarding his drug activities, distributers, couriers, drop points. Something around what happened to Brianna. We might get lucky.’

  Which wasn’t likely, Matthew was well aware. He’d been this route before: customs under surveillance, eyes on Sullivan and the suppliers. Sullivan had got wind of it somehow. Result: no result. Finally, the drugs squad had got one of their own on the inside, but she’d need time to gain the cretin’s trust, gather enough concrete information to warrant going that same route again. Meanwhile, if Sullivan got even a sniff of it, that would be it, game over. The chances of any one of his girls giving him anything to work with were slim to nil, but Matthew had to at least try.

  ‘And if we don’t get lucky?’

  ‘DS Collins is undercover,’ Matthew reminded him. ‘She might get something. That’s not going to happen anytime soon, though, is it? I need a way of bringing him in now.’

  Steve’s gaze strayed to the dash. ‘Plan B,’ he said, his expression uncertain at best.

  Chapter Seven

  Sighing, Matthew considered his next port of call. All he’d got for his efforts so far approaching girls on the streets was his cash supply depleted and sore feet. The girls they’d paid a visit to at their various places of abode hadn’t offered anything either, other than to confirm what Matthew already knew, that Sullivan did indeed fill his father’s shoes admirably. Each and every one of those girls had been terrified of what might happen if Sullivan found out the law had been sniffing around.

  ‘Do you always part with money for no information?’ Steve gave him a curious glance, as they entered another apartment building, this one more upmarket than the rest.

  Matthew shrugged. ‘Not always.’ He flashed his ID at the concierge, who glanced perfunctorily at it, before turning his gaze back to whatever he was watching on his PC. Matthew suspected the guy wouldn’t be on Sullivan’s payroll very long.

  ‘Right.’ Steve rolled his eyes, stepping into the lift beside him. ‘Must have missed the one you didn’t bung. You’ve been giving twenties away like they were going out of fashion.’

  ‘It might buy us a future favour.’ Matthew shrugged again, as if it was no big deal. ‘It might also buy a few of the girls five minutes out of the rain.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Steve shook his jacket lapels free of water. ‘Like they’re going to use it to go and buy a Starbucks? Do us a favour.’

  ‘Do I detect a touch of cynicism, DS Ingram?’ Matthew asked, leading the way out of the lift. The man was right, though. Chances were the majority of the girls would take a short walk across the road to their dealers and be back doing business five minutes later.

  ‘I was trying not to be cynical.’ Steve followed him moodily. ‘Even after that shit with the girl behind the Thai restaurant. But then, I opened my boss’s glove compartment …’

  Acknowledging the jibe with a contrite nod, Matthew hit the doorbell of the apartment he’d paused in front of. The man had every right. He’d spent a considerable amount of time pondering what Matthew had told him. Probably debating whether he’d developed some kind of fixation, waging a personal vendetta on a known criminal based on nothing but fresh air.

  ‘So what’s this?’ Steve glanced around the tastefully decorated landing. ‘Bit fancy for a working girl, isn’t it?’

  ‘High class,’ Matthew supplied, ‘upmarket clientele, by appointment only.’

  ‘Oh, right. Out of my league then?’ Steve creased his brow thoughtfully. ‘Joking, boss,’ he added, as Matthew shot him a warning glance. ‘Lindsey’s plenty enough for me, given she doesn’t dump me if this little lot goes belly up.’

  Matthew sighed, reaching for the doorbell again, as the door squeaked open a few inches.

  ‘What do you want?’ The girl’s tone wasn’t exactly welcoming. Obviously she’d already established who it was through the peephole.

  Christ. Catching sight of her face, Matthew winced inwardly. ‘Walked into another cupboard door, Natalie?’ he asked, taking in her split lip and bruised cheek. ‘Or was it a lamppost this time?’

  ‘Fell over the dog,’ Natalie said tartly, unhitching the chain and pulling the door open. ‘You’d better come in, but you’d better not let Pat know you’ve been here,’ she warned him, heading into the lounge.

  ‘No.’ Matthew followed her, indicating Steve to do the same. ‘Wouldn’t want you falling over any more dogs you haven’t got, would we, Nat?’

  Natalie shrugged, unperturbed, reached for her cigarettes on the coffee table and turned to face him.

  ‘So, whose handiwork was it, Natalie?’ Matthew asked, noticing the bruises also adorning her forearm as she lit up. ‘A punter? Or did the lovely Pat feel the need to have a forceful
word?’

  Natalie drew in a lungful of smoke. ‘What do you want, Detective Adams? I don’t have all day. Time is money, y’know.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Have to make sure Pat lives in the style to which he’s become accustomed, hey, Natalie?’

  Shrugging again, Natalie blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘I do all right.’

  ‘Yep, looking good, Natalie.’ Smiling ironically, Matthew kneaded his forehead. ‘Brianna’s not looking too good, unfortunately,’ he glanced back at her, ‘as you can probably imagine.’

  Natalie took another tight draw and turned away.

  ‘I don’t know nothing about Brianna.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, snatched up her make-up bag, and headed for the mirror.

  ‘No,’ Matthew watched her, as she attempted damage limitation to her face, ‘not many people do know much about her, suddenly. Strange that, when she’d been in Pat’s employ for, what, two, three years?’

  Natalie’s gaze flicked to Matthew’s, as she applied foundation to her cheek.

  ‘Gets her face beaten to a pulp, raped, strangled to death, and people are hard-pushed to remember even her name. Bit sad that, don’t you think, Nat?’

  Natalie dropped her gaze, her eyes now fixed on the make-up bag she was ferretting through.

  ‘She had a life, Natalie. Dreams, ambitions, parents worried sick about her. Just like you.’ Matthew continued to watch, as she extracted her lipstick, making an ‘O’ with her mouth before applying it. Her hand was shaking, he noted. ‘And now she’s dead,’ he paused, studying her carefully.

  ‘Obliterated,’ he went on quietly, as Natalie dropped her lipstick back in her bag and resumed searching through her make-up.

  ‘And it’s like she never fucking well existed!’

  ‘God!’ Natalie dropped the bag as Matthew raised his voice, the contents spewing across the floor. ‘What?’ she cried, whirling around. ‘What do you want me to say, Matthew? I can’t tell you anything!’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ Matthew fixed his gaze hard on hers.

  Natalie pulled her silk dressing gown tight. ‘I can’t! You know I can’t. Look what he did to her. If I say anything …’ Realising she’d said too much right there and then, Natalie stopped, her eyes wide, and petrified.

  ‘What who did to who, Natalie?’ Matthew pressed her, hoping, praying … if only she’d just name names.

  Natalie glanced hurriedly down. ‘I can’t, Matthew,’ she said shakily. ‘You’ve been good to me, and I’m grateful, but … I just can’t.’

  Matthew closed his eyes. That was it. He’d had his chance, and he’d blown it. Wearily, he dragged a hand across his neck. ‘Can you at least tell me why?’

  Natalie shook her head and swiped at a tear on her cheek.

  ‘Right. Okay.’ Matthew exhaled, long and hard, and then bent to retrieve her lipstick from the floor. ‘Keep painting the smile on, Natalie.’ He handed it to her. ‘You know where I am.’

  Natalie nodded, her gaze still fixed to her feet.

  Gesturing Steve, who’d been watching and learning—what a soul-destroying, completely hopeless job it was, Matthew headed for the door.

  ‘She talked to you!’ Natalie blurted tearfully behind them. ‘She was on the take, and then she talked to you and …’

  ****

  ‘Pull him.’ Matthew instructed, nodding at Sullivan’s car driving directly in front of them.

  Steve glanced at him askance. ‘For what?’

  ‘Breathing,’ Matthew suggested, ‘which should be an offence against humanity where vermin like him are concerned.’

  Natalie had confirmed what he already knew. Matthew’s gut twisted afresh. He should go to the DCI. Follow protocol and do it by the book. The chances of the girl making a statement, though, were nil. He had corroboration of sorts but, even with Steve as a witness, without a statement, Sullivan named therein, it amounted to nothing. No, as far as Matthew was concerned, until he had indisputable evidence, the book was out of the window.

  ‘Right.’ Steve nodded. ‘Can’t see that sticking somehow, boss.’

  ‘Rear lights,’ Matthew said, as they continued to follow Sullivan, who was obviously aware of being tailed, and cruising towards his house is if he hadn’t a care in the world. Baiting him. Always bloody baiting him.

  Scumbag. Matthew kneaded his temples. Sullivan would be secured behind a very different automated gate if Matthew had his way, permanently. All he needed to do was to pull him in and get him banged up long enough to get him stripped of his personal effects. God willing, he could do it without having to falsify evidence.

  ‘Er, his rear lights are not out,’ Steve pointed out, flicking the blues and twos nevertheless.

  ‘Not yet, no.’ Matthew’s jaw clenched, as the BMW convertible the son of a bitch had obviously worked his fingers to the bone for, slowed to a stop, Sullivan no doubt sitting cockily at the wheel, that smug can’t-touch-me look all over his face. Well, Matthew had got news for him. Climbing out of the passenger side, he nodded Steve on, indicating he should have the pleasure of informing Sullivan why he’d been stopped.

  Glancing questioningly at Matthew, Steve did as bid. He waited while Sullivan took his time lowering his window, and then, ‘Excuse me sir,’ he said politely, ‘do you realise your rear lights are out?’

  ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake,’ Sullivan groaned wearily. ‘Are you having a laugh, or what?’ Thrusting his door wide, he climbed out and walked around to check for himself.

  ‘Nope.’ Matthew smiled tightly, joining Sullivan at the back of the car. ‘Your lights are out,’ he reiterated, kicking one in with the heel of his shoe. ‘Both of them.’ He made short work of the second light.

  Sullivan’s response was to stare, dumbfounded for a second, and then laugh out loud. ‘Oh, deary me, a girly tantrum. We are desperate, aren’t we, Adams? What you going to do now? Write me a ticket?’

  Matthew didn’t react. ‘Move away from the vehicle, please sir,’ he requested courteously instead.

  Sullivan cocked his head to one side. ‘Why?’ His look was now one of discernible irritation.

  Matthew moved towards him, no attempt this time to hide the anger broiling inside him. ‘Because I’d quite like to kick your lights out,’ he grated, getting some small satisfaction from the flicker of fear he saw in the man’s eyes.

  Sullivan soon collected himself, squinting at him curiously. ‘What are you up to, Adams?’

  Matthew held his gaze. ‘Just a routine search.’

  Sullivan balked. ‘Oh, man, you have to be joking. You sad bastard, Adams, you can’t keep pulling me over and searching my property without my consent.’

  Matthew shrugged indifferently and turned towards the driver’s side. ‘I think you’ll find I can, Sullivan, given grounds for reasonable suspicion.’

  ‘Reasonable suspicion?’ Sullivan spluttered and made to follow him. Unfortunately, he found himself blocked by Steve’s intimidating bulk. ‘You’re fitting me up, you bastard!’

  Matthew ignored him, in favour of climbing into the driver’s seat of the BMW. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking, as he retrieved the wraps from his pocket. Was he really going to do this?

  ‘You haven’t got a snowball in hell’s chance of getting away with this, Adams!’ Sullivan shouted around Steve. ‘I’ll walk. You know I will. And you’ll be stuffed. You won’t even get a job as a bloody security guard! Do you hear me?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s in a listening mood, Patrick,’ Steve offered, squaring up to him. ‘I’d button it, if I were you.’

  ‘What bloody grounds for suspicion?’ Sullivan attempted to push past him.

  ‘Back up,’ Steve warned him.

  ‘He is legally obliged to tell me what his grounds for suspicion are.’ Sullivan jabbed a finger in Matthew’s direction. ‘And what he’s searching for. I know my rights! You hear me, Adams? Do this and you’re finished!’

  Matthew pressed the heel of
his hand against his forehead, trying to still the images, his daughter’s blood seeping towards him, staining the road crimson and soaking into his clothes, the ugly fat fly, which seemed to be buzzing around in his head. He was losing it. He swallowed hard. Sullivan was right. He had no hope of making this stick. Was he really willing to risk screwing Steve’s career up, along with his own? What the hell had he been thinking? He hadn’t been, clearly. Matthew felt the tension slacken a little, as another option occurred. He needed that nail file. The tie might be useful too, which Sullivan was overly fond of straightening. He didn’t need to drag Sullivan in to get it, though, did he?

  Re-pocketing the drugs, Matthew climbed out of the car. ‘Patrick Sullivan,’ he said, pulling out his ID card as he walked towards him. ‘Detective Inspector Matthew Adams,’ he introduced himself, as per protocol during a public search. ‘Following a tip off, I have reasonable grounds to believe that you are carrying drugs for purposes of supplying.’

  ‘I don’t bloody believe this. You are, aren’t you?’ Sullivan looked utterly astonished. ‘You’re going to fit me up?’

  ‘I’m therefore informing you that I intend to carry out a body search.’

  ‘Piss off, Adams.’ Sullivan moved towards his car.

  ‘Failure to give consent will result in you being detained for twenty four hours for questioning without formal arrest. Your call, Sullivan.’

  Sullivan stopped and turned back. Cocking his head to one side, he appraised Matthew for a second, and then, ‘Good film you were watching last night, was it?’ he asked.

  Fear tightened Matthew’s stomach like a slipknot. ‘What?’

  ‘Taken,’ Sullivan went on, narrowing his eyes, weighing Matthew’s reaction. ‘I thought it was pretty good myself. Taken Two wasn’t up to much, but …’

  Blind fury sweeping through him, Matthew was on him, slamming his fist so hard into the man’s face, he heard bone and sinew crack. ‘Bastard!’ he spat, wiping a hand across his mouth, as Sullivan sank to his knees. Matthew wasn’t finished with him yet though. Not by a long chalk. He took a step towards him.