by Rob McCarthy
‘Did you read them all?’ Harry asked. ‘If you did, you’d see that I’ve been discharged as of January 2012. I had problems. I had therapy. I got fixed.’
‘Who are you trying to convince, Dr Kent?’ said Bambrough. ‘Us or yourself?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘I did some reading on PTSD,’ Bambrough continued. ‘Very interesting. There was one phrase which really stuck with me. A propensity to react disproportionately to stressful stimuli.’
‘You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ Harry said. ‘I want a lawyer. No comment.’
The room descended into silence. Deakin sat back in his chair, arms folded, taking his chewing gum out and sticking it under the table. Bambrough pulled his notes close to his chest, reading over them. Harry saw the game they were trying to pull, letting the silence envelop him, in the hope that their quiet judgement would become an itch, something that he would eventually give in to. He fought it, and then Wilson’s phone buzzed twice, the way it would if he had got a text. Geddes, maybe, with the address of the man who’d sold the gun to Lahiri’s killer.
The gun, Harry thought. That was his way out.
‘I was in the meeting this morning,’ he said. ‘DS Cheung said that the gun which killed Lahiri was the same one which was fired behind Wyndham Road.’
The detectives nodded. Harry knew that they were both DCs, that the person really running the show, DCI Marsden, would be behind the one-way mirror, so he turned his body and shouted directly at it.
‘I couldn’t have fired that gun. It’s someone else. I made mistakes with Alice, I’m gonna have to find a way to live with that. But I was not involved in James’s death, and you all fucking know it. Go find the man in that video. Stop wasting your time.’
‘There’s a turning point in every interview I do,’ Deakin said. ‘Where the bad guy switches from I didn’t do it to You can’t prove I did it.’
Harry shook his head. The phone in his pocket buzzed again, the text still unread. He had an urge to read it, but he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he still had the phone, that he hadn’t yet been searched.
‘Well, I think I can say whatever the hell I like,’ Harry said. ‘Given that I haven’t yet received the lawyer I’ve repeatedly asked for, and therefore everything I say now would be very shaky in front of a judge.’
Bambrough looked across at Deakin, the poker face wavering slightly.
‘You’ve requested a solicitor and we are obliged to honour that request,’ Deakin said. ‘Anything you say from now on may be given in evidence and will be taken as an indication that you have waived that right.’
‘Fuck you both,’ Harry said. ‘Take that down and give it in evidence.’
Bambrough shuffled on his chair, looked at him.
‘What was James’s reaction when he found out about you and Alice? How did he find out?’
‘No comment.’
A knock on the door.
‘Come in!’
All eyes turned. Harry had never thought he’d be glad to see the bald, angled face of DCI Fairweather, who spun into the room, one hand holding his glasses onto his nose, the other resting on the door.
‘Detectives, I think it’s time we put an end to this tiresome charade.’
They scowled and got to their feet, Bambrough turning off the recorder with a closed fist.
‘Interview suspended, twelve forty-one.’
As soon as they were gone, Harry checked his phone. The message was from Geddes, short and to the point.
Niall Connor Fitzpatrick, d.o.b 3/7/1979, 105 Rodney Place, SE17 1PP. Adm with #fourth metacarpal, March 2011, also UGI bleed, Oct 2012.
The hashtag was a medical abbreviation, and it meant that Fitzpatrick had fractured the bone under the ring finger of one hand. It was a common injury in those who’d thrown a punch, so common that it was called a boxer’s fracture. The upper gastrointestinal bleed wasn’t surprising either. Over time, heavy drinkers eroded the lining of their stomachs, and the repeated vomiting weakened the wall of the oesophagus. As the liver failed, the arteries in the gullet wall could swell up and burst, and that was catastrophic. It was how Harry’s own mother had died.
Rodney Place was a name Harry recognised. The road was on the border of the Heygate estate, a failed housing project on the eastern side of the Elephant & Castle roundabout. Now the council had decided to pull it down but were still working on evicting the few stragglers who clung on within, so it existed mostly fenced off, abandoned. He could get there by taxi in fifteen minutes if the traffic was good.
But first, of course, he’d have to get out of this room.
There was noise from the corridor, men and women arguing. It appeared to be Fairweather who was running the show now. Harry strained, listening for Noble’s voice, but he couldn’t make it out.
Then the door opened, and Fairweather walked in alone, sweat on his bald forehead in tight, organised beads. He shut the door slowly and quietly, then paced towards the CD recorder.
‘I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer,’ Harry said.
‘Shut up,’ said Fairweather. Harry had expected him to turn the recorder on, but he didn’t. He was checking that it was off. Then he retrieved the CD, slid it into a plastic jacket, and put it in his coat pocket. Remained standing, hands forward, leaning on the table. Harry shuffled backwards on his chair.
‘I’ll start by apologising,’ Fairweather said. ‘What happened was unnecessary, in my opinion. You’re no longer under arrest. You’re free to leave.’
Harry shook his head, disgusted. He knew it’d been a mistake, six months ago, to start working with the police. Done, of course, with the best of intentions, of somehow building bridges, finding some hotshot detective and convincing them to take up Zara’s case, to do his bit putting a name to the face lying there.
‘What are you going to do with that CD?’ Harry said.
Fairweather smiled.
‘It’s going to disappear. No record has been made of your arrest, and none will be. That’s my offer. On one condition.’
Harry felt his skin begin to itch under his clothes, looked up at Fairweather. When he said nothing, Fairweather kept speaking.
‘Your assistance in this inquiry is no longer required. Until further notice, your only contact with any serving Metropolitan Police officer will be if you are requested to attend a formal interview at a police station. You are not to contact any witness or person of interest in this investigation or any other, and if you are found to have done so I will not hesitate to arrest you on charges of obstructing an investigation. Is all of that clear?’
Harry thought about the text, thought about handing it over to Fairweather or Marsden, letting the police process the information. But he was fairly sure that Niall Fitzpatrick wouldn’t talk to anyone with a warrant card, and he remembered the promise he’d made to James Lahiri, alone in the shower, washing his blood off his face, and said, ‘Crystal.’
‘You’ve done more to hinder this investigation than to aid it, Dr Kent,’ Fairweather said, finally sitting down. ‘Feel free to resign as a Forensic Medical Examiner, if you wish.’
Harry stood up and headed for the door. Turned around, decided to have one last shot.
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Fairweather smiled again, pulled the CD from his jacket pocket, tapped it, and put it back.
‘Goodbye, Dr Kent,’ he said.
Noble was outside and on her third cigarette when she saw the Mercedes pull into the station’s car park, and recognised the two figures in the front. Professional Standards. Some of the older coppers called them the rubberheelers, because you’d never hear them coming until you turned around and there they were. Christ knows where they’d been – probably over to Tulse Hill to meet with the area commander, given how long they’d been gone. She said nothing as Fairweather strode past her into the station’s back entrance, the apologetic, bleary face of Tony Kepler following behind. She knew
how he felt, a good copper having to do a bullshit job. She remembered now why she hated Louisa Marsden, why they’d never got on. Every detective enjoyed turning the screw on a suspect, and there was no more satisfying feeling than when some fucker who’d offed his wife collapsed and confessed all. But Marsden had to be a sadist, drawing some weird pleasure out of breaking down a man who’d already lost his best friend, and done more to help their investigation than most of her team.
She finished her smoke and went back inside, trying to form a plan for what she’d do with her afternoon now Harry was gone. Wilson was working through the Saviour Project staff. When they’d picked him up, Harry had been at the Burgess Park Practice, talking to Dr Whitacre, the project’s founder. Lahiri had mentioned him on the boat. It seemed as good a place as any to start.
She headed to the interview room corridor, and heard two voices in shrill combat, Fairweather and Marsden, standing in the corridor so they didn’t disturb the interviews. Two DCIs on one investigation was always a recipe for disaster. As Noble got closer, she saw Fairweather bang on the door to the interview room, heading in, then Bambrough and Deakin, the detectives from Homicide & Serious, leave, shaking their heads, swearing.
‘Boys, come with me,’ said Marsden, heading past Noble towards the incident room. The detectives were still cursing, and Noble wasn’t sure if they were angry at their time being wasted, or the fact they hadn’t got to finish taking Harry over the rack.
They left Noble alone in the corridor with DC Kepler, a pained look on his face.
‘Bet you fucking regret transferring now,’ she said.
Kepler came closer, his voice quiet. Noble recognised the look on his face now. It was the same one Harry had had when he’d sat her down in the ICU and told her that Jack wasn’t going to wake up.
‘I need to have a word, ma’am,’ he said quietly.
That’s when she knew. In the five or six years Noble had known Tony Kepler, he had never once called her ma’am, despite her superior rank. He called her guv, like Wilson did, like all her colleagues who were also friends.
‘Jesus, Tony,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ Kepler said.
‘Don’t fucking ma’am me,’ said Noble, ‘Just get it over and done with.’
Kepler pulled a piece of lightweight yellow paper from his pocket and handed it to her. She’d seen a Reg Nine notice once before, after the job in Finsbury.
‘Detective Inspector Frances Noble, I am informing you under Regulation Nine of the Police Conduct Act that you are subject to an investigation by the Professional Standards Directorate following a report of an incident of misconduct, which is detailed in this notice. You are advised—’
She didn’t read it, just took it, cut him off, stuffed it into her jeans pocket.
‘Get out of there while you can, Tony,’ she said, patting him on the arm. ‘You’re too good for those pricks.’
Kepler nodded sullenly. ‘Thanks, guv.’
Noble turned and left, needing to be away, ran through the car park, pulling her phone from her pocket, calling Wilson, but he didn’t pick up. Fucking load of bollocks it all was. She looked around the unfamiliar surroundings of Lewisham High Street, but it didn’t take her long to spot the nearest pub, the Joiners’ Arms. Directly across from the police station, so probably a coppers’ bar, but fuck it. She went inside, headed straight to the bar, ordered a double vodka-lemonade and a straight double vodka on the side and crawled off into a corner booth, where she pulled her phone out and saw one unread text, one unread email.
The text was from the phone Wilson had lent to Harry, and it read, Can I still trust you?
She replied, one word. Yes. Then she checked the email, which was from the detective superintendent in charge of the Flying Squad, regarding the betting shop robbery on Peckham High Street. It outlined his opinion that the matter would best be handled by local CID, and requested that DI Noble take over the investigation, effective the following morning. Marsden and Fairweather had both been copied into the email. The bastards had moved quickly.
Noble took a single gulp of her drink, trying to clear her thoughts. The Reg Nine notice, Harry naked on top of her, the taste of vodka in his mouth. Misconduct was certainly the right word for it, but the fire that had taken hold in her when Fairweather had mentioned Jack’s name had burnt out and now sat as embers of guilt, smouldering away. And all this, distracting her from what she needed to do. She thought about the video, the fear in Keisha and Solomon’s faces as a man had hit and raped them. She thought of James Lahiri, still and cold on the deck of his boat. She’d promised Harry that she would help him bring the person responsible to justice, and she couldn’t do that sat in a bar, drowning her sorrows.
Her phone buzzed again. Harry had replied.
Have Fitz’s address in Elephant and Castle. Going there now. Where are you?
Noble replied, Clearing my head.
Then she looked down at her glass of lemonade, an inch or so gone from the top. Checked that she was unobserved, poured the two shots in and filled it back up to the top, mixing it with her finger. Took a long gulp, and pulled the Reg Nine form from her pocket, scanning the words. The artificial, formal language left her in no doubt that Fairweather was the author. In some places, the phrasing was comical. During this time, it is alleged that you had sexual intercourse and/or sexual relations with the witness. Made her sound like Bill bloody Clinton. But nowhere in the form did it say anything about suspension, or restriction of duties.
So she finished her drink in one straight pull, the burn and the sting making her eyes hurt and her skin glow, took her coat and headed out, crossed the road towards the police station, making for the incident room. She might only have a day left on this case, but there was plenty that could be done in a day of proper graft. The way Marsden had stitched her up, she’d have every right just to go home and leave her to it, but the job was about more than that. Jack would be proud of that, whatever Marcus fucking Fairweather thought.
The Heygate estate was a wasteland, a concrete sarcophagus bordered by thick plastic walls, health-and-safety signs, random orbs of off-white light illuminating broken windows and crumbling brickwork. People had left the Heygate in herds – even five years ago, the estate’s residents had numbered only fifty of their original three thousand, and they were the diehards who saw the shithole as home because it was the only one they’d ever known. Now all but a handful had left, and the bricks and mortar would be dust before the next year was out.
Rodney Place was the road leading in from the south, and Harry told the cabbie to stop as soon as he saw the sign, paying him and leaving the taxi at a run. Once the cab had left, turning back onto the New Kent Road, Harry squeezed through a gap in the fence, heading for a staircase that led into the main residential block. He’d texted Noble on the way and had been unnerved by her answer. He hoped she was still on his side, because right now she and DS Wilson were the only people he trusted. As he climbed the stairs, he briefly considered what he would do if Fitzpatrick wasn’t around, or unable to provide any information. Perhaps he could make his way to Kingston and find some comfort in Tammas. When he thought of that, he heard Tammas’s voice again. You find him. And you make. The bastard pay.
Harry followed the signs for the hundreds, darting up onto a walkway where broken glass and used syringes crunched beneath his shoes, some of them caked in dirt and mould. The sun was low in the afternoon sky and flecks of snow hung in the orange street lights of London’s rising night. The dusk accentuated those few homes within the estate which had lights on, the last few stoic hangers-on. He spent a while on the concrete walkway, passing boarded-up doors, until he realised that it was just the even numbers on this level. The odd numbers were a half-floor down, facing the other way at ground level, opening onto the estate’s central oblong. On the staircase, a rat darted against him and he jumped, fists balled, ready to strike. Held his fleece tight and shivered as the wind hit, then moved forward.<
br />
A few steps later Harry was in the central square, looking over the rest of the estate towards Lambeth and Vauxhall, skyscrapers whose lights never died. In a hall of residence, he thought, the central area would have been called a quad, with students sitting out in the sun pretending to revise or throwing snowballs in winter. Here, those people who hadn’t fled bolted their doors after dark. He looked down the abandoned corridor of boarded-up maisonettes, and saw a light. The flat closest to him was number 97. He counted. The light was over number 105.
Harry pulled off the fleece with the police logo on it, and threw it onto the floor, moving side-on to the door under the light. There were no boards, just a thin line of dust where perhaps they had once been attached.
He knocked hard. Got no answer, so he knocked again.
The sound of wheels scraping along the floor emerged slowly from the apartment, before giving way to the click of bolts being drawn across and the creak of the door. Harry stood with half of his body open to the door, the other half protected, so he could throw himself against the wall if rushed. There was no sign of a dog, which was good. The man he took to be Niall Fitzpatrick opened the door in a metal wheelchair that looked like a prop from a wartime medical drama. Between the stumps of his legs, which were covered by thick tracksuit shorts, a trembling hand held a sawn-off shotgun, its twin barrels oriented upwards towards Harry.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Fitzpatrick said.
There were about four feet between Harry and the gun, not too far to reach if the need arose. The problem, however, was the wheelchair. With a standing opponent, you could take them off their balance, and gain the advantage. But he couldn’t do that with Fitzpatrick.
‘I hear you sell guns,’ Harry said.
Fitzpatrick looked up at him with yellow, bloodshot eyes. He stank of alcohol and vomit, and had pieces of old food and dead skin matted into his red beard. He wore a large camouflage coat over several layers of jumpers, stained with dirty brown marks. Harry tried to picture the man as a fresh-faced ordnance technician in a combat uniform, walking out towards a ditch. Harry felt lucky for what he had, which seemed ironic.
