Risk of Harm

by Lucie Whitehouse

  Thanks to an epidemic of knife crime, the UK’s second city has a per capita homicide rate higher than London’s, with this year’s numbers already on track to exceed last year’s by a significant margin.

  This week’s killings, however, have reached to the heart of a city on edge.

  In the early hours of Sunday morning, a young woman whom DCI Lyons and her team have yet to identify fell victim to a savage knife attack in one of the many derelict factories that dot the inner city.

  On Tuesday, the body of Lara Meikle, 23, was discovered among weeds and litter in a squalid alleyway between industrial buildings less than half a mile away.

  The details of her injuries bear alarming similarities to those of the young woman whose life was cut so tragically short two days earlier but a spokesman for West Midlands Police refused to be drawn on whether the cases are connected.

  Local residents are growing understandably frustrated by the lack of progress in the case. And frightened.

  ‘We’re scared out of our wits,’ said Lynn Tebbit, a resident of the block opposite which Lara Meikle’s body was discovered. ‘Two lovely young girls have been killed on our doorstep this week. Me and my friends don’t feel safe to leave the house after dark when we know there’s a vicious killer out there.’ Her partner, Neil Daly, said ‘We’re asking what are the police doing to actually catch this maniac. It feels like they’re out of control. Like we’ve been abandoned.’

  Yesterday, the force announced that a suspect had been arrested but this morning, the press office confirmed that he had been released without charge. At time of going to press, no further arrests have been made.

  Nevertheless DCI Lyons found time yesterday to relax over smoked salmon and avocado toast (below, left) while talking to friends. ‘She was chatting away,’ said one diner at a table nearby, ‘her phone just kept ringing.’

  And later, she indulged in a steamy session with her secret lover (below, right), whom the Herald has identified as Kevin Young, the divorced managing director of one of the city’s largest scrap-metal dealers. Young’s father, Morris Young, the previous MD, is a colourful figure whose shady business connections resulted in a prison sentence for fencing stolen property.

  But DCI Lyons is no stranger to controversy herself. In 2017 she was dismissed from Homicide Command with London’s Metropolitan Police for disobeying the orders of a commanding officer to charge a suspect they held in custody. Instead she released Jamie Hinton, a known career criminal – who has not been seen in public since.

  Lyons’s next stop was Birmingham, her home city, and her current position at Force Homicide. Her move coincided with the murder of her close friend Corinna Legge, whose death was later discovered to have resulted from her own underworld connections in the city.

  Whether Lyons will succeed in catching the killer currently terrifying the people of Birmingham remains to be seen – but at least they can be sure that she’s not letting the pressure get to her.

  *

  She had to hand it to Kilmartin: he had a Hitchcock-grade gift for suspense-building. She’d been in front of him for fifteen or twenty seconds now, and he’d yet to utter a word. When Rhona – with a final sympathetic grimace – had opened the door for her, he’d been positioned in his spot in front of the window and he’d stared at her as if he hoped she might just shrivel and die. Then he’d turned his back, repulsed. She’d shot a glance at Samir, who’d shaken his head in warning and looked away.

  Silence, apart from the sound of a car on Rose Road and Rhona’s typing, barely audible through the firmly closed door. As if calling down the spirits of his ancestors, Kilmartin drew a long, hard breath through his nose and spun around – Good evening, Wem-ber-leeeeey! The Freddie Mercury of West Midlands, Robin thought. With tighter trousers.

  When – finally – he spoke, his words were staccato, little switchblade jabs. ‘What a shambles. What a complete bloody shambles.’

  Robin opened her mouth but was silenced by a glare from Samir.

  ‘Just when we’re doing everything we can to reassure the public that the safety of this city is in reliable hands … this.’ He swept a disgusted hand in the direction of Samir’s desk, where, presumably, the Herald piece was up onscreen. He shook his head, eyes pressed shut, as if words failed him. Freddie would be impressed, Robin thought – what a drama queen.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ – lie – ‘as far as I can tell, the substance of the story is “detective eats sandwich, talks on the phone and has boyfriend”. This “information” is presented to make me sound like Nero fiddling while Rome burns when nothing could be further from the truth. The reporting’s totally inaccurate. I mean, apart from anything else, I didn’t even have the salmon.’

  The last bit was a mistake, she saw straight away – Kilmartin was incensed. ‘Oh, you think this is amusing in some way, do you? Occasion for some glib humour?’

  ‘Not remotely,’ she said. After the initial flood of horror, her first thought had been how Lara’s mother would feel when she saw the photographs, as she inevitably would. ‘No. I’m mortified by it. Appalled. But as I said, it’s inaccurate.’

  ‘Is it?’ A flick of the eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t “chatting on the phone”. I took two calls, one from my DS to tell me a salient detail from the post mortem, another from a private detective with potential information.’ She decided to omit the call to Dunnington Road to check on Luke’s crazy-level. ‘The photograph with Kevin was taken at eleven o’clock at night, and it was a gross invasion of my privacy. It’s true that I had lunch but it’s also true that I’d been at work for over nine hours by that point yesterday and I’d barely eaten. I went out to get a breath of fresh air and to try to think.’

  ‘I’m not talking about your bloody avocado toast!’ Kilmartin roared. ‘I’m talking about the fact that you’re emblazoned across the Internet in a clinch with the son of a convicted criminal, which information is presented in a consecutive paragraph with the fact that another close friend of yours – now murdered – was also a criminal.’

  ‘Sir, with respect’ – Samir’s sounded much more convincing – ‘Robin and I have both been friends of Kevin’s since we were at school and he’s completely above board.’

  Even his dad was only guilty of buying the odd bit of scrap metal without enquiring too carefully into its origins, Robin was tempted to say; he’s hardly Reggie Kray. And what was ‘colourful’ supposed to mean? Working-class, probably, in Herald-speak. As if he knew exactly what she was thinking, Samir shot her another silencing look.

  ‘Even if that is the case,’ Kilmartin said, ‘we all know the story about Corinna Legge is true.’

  ‘We also know,’ said Samir, ‘that it was Robin who solved that case, even without being on the team at the time.’

  ‘In fact on no team at the time, because she’d been kicked out of the Met.’

  ‘A mistake the Met rectified when the truth about that case was discovered,’ Samir said calmly. ‘DCI Lyons was reinstated in London but chose to accept the offer of a job with us instead.’

  ‘Despite my misgivings due to her having been dragged across the pages of the Daily Mail at the time.’

  ‘You demonstrated a faith in my judgement that I’ve always appreciated in our working relationship, sir. As did she. Robin was one of the youngest DCIs at the Met, her statistics there were impressive to say the least, and yet she chose to join us.’ Samir let go of the back of his chair. ‘There’s no question the piece is highly regrettable – we all agree on that – but as I see it, the important thing here is showing that we set the agenda. We, Force Homicide, West Midlands Police, are running this enquiry, not the Daily Herald or any other news outlet.’

  ‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ Kilmartin puffed up his chest.

  God, the hypocrisy, Robin thought. It was enough to make you lose your lunch. Had he forgotten that he was the one who’d been goaded into announcing they’d arrested someone?

  ‘We can’t b
e told what to do – or be seen to be told – by the media. It’s so easy to criticize,’ Samir went on. ‘Easy for some keyboard-jockey down in London to string together a few salacious-sounding facts and ask why we haven’t got someone bang to rights within twenty-four hours. Much, much harder to solve what is beyond doubt a demanding and complicated case.’

  ‘I was right when I said this had the potential to blow up, PR-wise.’

  ‘You were,’ Samir nodded. ‘Completely right.’

  ‘And I said at the time that I wanted you to take this one.’

  ‘It might still be two,’ Robin put in.

  Wait, Samir’s look told her. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘if we make a change now, we’ll look like we’re admitting the Herald’s accusations against DCI Lyons have a basis in fact.’

  ‘But—’ Kilmartin started.

  ‘And by extension, those accusations imply that the people who put her in the position are incompetent – how could we employ someone who is patently inappropriate, let alone put her in charge of something so important? At DCI level, that reflects badly on all of us, right up the chain of command.’ Not just me, sir: you.

  Robin watched Kilmartin recognize the truth of this, his mouth moving as if he were actually tasting it.

  ‘I have every confidence – I did and I still do – that DCI Lyons is the right person for this job,’ Samir said. ‘Her record here is exemplary.’

  ‘We’ve had a significant breakthrough,’ said Robin. ‘We’ve now got CCTV of Lara Meikle being pursued by a man two hundred metres from where her body was found, and an eyewitness to him heading away from the scene shortly afterwards. It’s a major development.’

  Kilmartin looked at her, eyes narrowed. ‘And what about this man Gupta?’

  ‘He had nothing to do with either.’

  ‘But, as I understand it, you can’t prove he didn’t.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she admitted, ‘but we also can’t prove he did, and I strongly believe he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now so let’s hope your “strong belief” is correct and he doesn’t go and kill someone else, shall we?’

  It occurred to Robin suddenly that he was embarrassed – that she’d embarrassed him by not charging Gupta. But that wasn’t her fault; he should never have done it. ‘Indeed, sir,’ she said.

  ‘You will not take matters into your own hands here like you did in London.’

  ‘Sir,’ Samir said, ‘DCI Lyons consulted me on the decision to let Gupta go, and I agreed with her. We’re working closely together and that will continue; she’ll keep me informed at every step.’

  Robin nodded. ‘I will.’

  Kilmartin looked between them as if he smelled a rat. ‘And you’ll keep me informed, DCS Jafferi. Every development of note. I will not have this detonating under us – I hope I’ve made that abundantly clear.’

  ‘Abundantly,’ said Robin.

  He gave her a final glare, turned on his heel and swept from the room with as much aplomb as someone of his diminutive stature could rustle up. They heard him say a brief goodbye to Rhona – she’d been with West Midlands so long, most of the brass had worked with her – then the solid clunk of the outer door.

  Robin exhaled. ‘Oof. Is it too early for a drink?’

  ‘What, you’d like the Herald to print that picture, too?’

  She frowned. ‘I’m joking, Samir. Sense of humour?’ After the united front, she’d expected some degree of post-battle camaraderie but there was no warmth in his voice at all.

  ‘Humour?’ he said. ‘It evaporated under the strain of having to kiss his arse to save yours.’

  She nodded, chastened. ‘I know. Thank you. Really, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t make me regret it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And perhaps you could also do me the favour of conducting your private life in private, at least for the duration?’

  She nodded again.

  He looked at her, eyes unreadable. ‘Did it have to be Kev, Robin?’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The new Queen Elizabeth was a behemoth, one of the biggest hospitals in the country. Its main frontage comprised three curved white buildings which, with their bands of lit windows, loomed in the gloaming now like the sterns of three vast ocean-going liners. Leaving, Robin thought, just as she arrived.

  When her dad had rung again a little after six o’clock, she’d expected to hear that they were safely back at Dunnington Road, her mum enthroned on the sofa and receiving personal service of a standard Beyoncé might appreciate.

  Instead, voice shaking, he’d told her she’d had a stroke.

  As they crossed the car park, she looked at Lennie’s face, so small and worried, and reached for her hand. Usually this would result in an aggrieved ‘Mum, I’m fifteen!’ but tonight Len held on as they ran the gauntlet of smokers loitering on the forecourt, a mix of visitors and patients, some in their dressing gowns trailing IV drips on stands. The walking wounded. Hospitals were like pockets of wartime, Robin thought, the life-and-death stakes, the fear, normality suspended for both combatants and those waiting for them at home.

  She saw her dad the moment they spun through the revolving doors. As he crushed Robin’s face into the shoulder of his slightly crisp jumper, the scent of Woolite filled her nostrils, summoning an image of her mother rubber-gloved at her tiny utility-room sink pronouncing that while she loved her washing machine, she’d never trust it with wool, as if the kind of person who did (Robin) was dangerously unhinged.

  ‘How is she, Dad?’

  ‘I think she’s very frightened,’ he said, looking very frightened himself. ‘She …’ He stopped and glanced at Lennie.

  ‘It’s okay, Grandpa. It’s more scary if I think people are keeping stuff back, trying to protect me.’

  He looked at Robin for confirmation. ‘It’s all so sudden,’ he said. ‘Last night everything was fine and now …’ He shook his head and she saw a glimpse of him ten or fifteen years into the future, much greyer, weaker. He was almost six foot, her dad, but in this alien setting, surrounded by strangers and powerless to help, he looked small. Vulnerable.

  ‘What are the doctors saying?’

  ‘Not a lot. I don’t know how much they can say at this point. They’ve got her blood pressure down a bit, and the nurse keeps coming to see how hard she can hold her hand, whether she’s getting any strength back.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘She says so but …’

  ‘You think it’s wishful thinking?’ Or, more likely, her mum trying to be obliging, hating to be a nuisance.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘They keep saying it’s early days but her face isn’t going back like it did before and it’s been nearly four hours.’

  ‘Can she talk, Grandpa?’

  ‘Yes, love, but she’s a bit slurred. Like she’s been on the sherry.’ He tried to smile but faltered.

  They’d been getting ready to go home, he’d told Robin on the phone, he’d been talking at the desk when, behind him, he’d heard her mother shriek. He’d spun around as she’d started to throw up, a hand clamped over her eye. Then staff had swarmed from all corners, wheeling in equipment, shunting him and Luke out of the way.

  ‘Seeing you will do her the power of good,’ he told Lennie now.

  They followed him back through the lobby to the lifts and then along an over-lit corridor lined with double doors. Her mother had still been in A&E when it had happened, but a bed had freed up on the specialist stroke ward a couple of hours later. ‘The lady before had been sent home,’ her dad told them now, as if it were a good omen.

  ‘Where’s Luke? Has he gone?’

  ‘No, he’s in the canteen having a bite to eat. Your mother insisted, said the poor lad must be starving.’

  So it never stopped, Robin thought, even in here. ‘What about you? Have you had anything?’

  ‘Not yet. We could have something together after you’ve seen her, if you�
�re up for it.’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ said Lennie.

  They were buzzed through the doors into a long room lined with bays down either side. The patients weren’t immediately visible but Robin could feel them, lots of them, breathing and sleeping, zoning out in front of their televisions, lying awake and afraid. The air was over-warm, heavy with layers of disinfectant and the poorly masked human smells underneath. People were ill here, the air told her, very ill.

  Her dad introduced them at the nurses’ station then led them back through the ward to a bay on the right which held three beds, the first curtained off. Her mother was in the middle and Robin saw her eyes light up the moment Lennie came into view. She’d been lying back against the pillows and tried to push herself upright before remembering that her left arm was useless. Instead, with her right hand, she gripped the metal rail along the side of her bed but she couldn’t lift her weight enough to sit up straighter. Her dad was there in a second, one hand supporting her back while the other plumped the pillows and raised the head of the bed with the button.

  Lennie went to her first, reaching gingerly around the lines that trailed from the blood-pressure cuff and a cannula in the back of her mother’s hand to touch her cheek against hers. ‘Oh, Gran, what have you done now?’ she said, trying to smile. ‘Look at you.’

  Robin was grateful she didn’t have to talk straight away; the inside of her throat had swollen. Her mother’s face. The droop was shocking – the asymmetry of it. It was as if the comedy and tragedy theatre masks had been broken in half and smashed back together with the wrong partner: the right side was unaltered, the eye crinkling, the corner of her mouth lifting as she tried to smile pleasure and reassurance at Lennie, but her left eye was hooded by the soft folds of her fallen eyelid, and beneath it, the corner of her mouth sagged, unresponsive, as if she’d had an anaesthetic at the dentist.

  And fenced into the bed, she looked so small. Her upper body disappeared among the pillows; her legs reached barely half the length of the cellular blanket. The lump in Robin’s throat wouldn’t budge. In reality, her mother was five feet four but to her, she was enormous, a towering pillar of power and energy and scathing judgement. Now the power was disconnected and she was reduced to normal – fragile – human proportions.