She left him, but that didn’t stop her hearing his response: ‘Yes . . . ma’am.’
The surly sarcasm in his voice was laced with provocation, meant to slow her down. But she wasn’t dealing with his shit now. In fact she hoped to get Newman to toss him off her team. No point putting energy into something that wasn’t going to be there pretty soon. She kept her stride long and balanced as she moved towards the lift. Pressed 3. Once inside, she straightened the collar of her jacket, smoothed her palms against the top of her black trousers, pushed her shoulders back and strong. Then she pulled out the envelope that had the Metropolitan Police Service official stamp on it. She opened it up and knew what it was instantly: her request for an annual firearms training refresher course. She had taken one each year since leaving the armed response unit ten years back. What she read in the letter did not improve her mood.
Request denied.
Reason: A need to prioritise strategic resources.
Cock and bull management chat for there was not enough cash in the kitty. Well there was nothing she could do about it; she’d just have to re-apply again next year. She pushed the letter back into her pocket and finger-combed her ’fro. Feeling more in control it took her a few seconds to walk from the lift to the inner sanctum of her superior’s office.
‘He’s waiting for you,’ DSI Newman’s PA told her.
Rio nodded and opened the teak coloured door. But froze on the threshold of the room when she saw that Newman wasn’t alone.
‘Ma’am.’ Surprise was evident in Rio’s voice at finding Assistant Commissioner Pauline Tripple also present.
Everything about AC Tripple was smart: her formal uniform; her no-nonsense brown hair that tapered around the ears and neck with longer strands on top; her quick, logical mind that had helped get her nearly to the top of her profession. Rio had heard some other officers – always male – snidely call her Raspberry Ripple – a take on her surname, but also Cockney slang for nipple. Not everyone on the Force appreciated one of the top brass being a woman.
‘Wray,’ Newman ushered, waving a hand at the empty chair positioned on the side of the desk nearest to her.
The Super had the bulk of a brawler, but the reddened and deeply lined face of a man under much stress.
Rio took the seat in an office that was clean, bright and clinically white. Soulless. One of those minimal, paper-free affairs, the uplighters on the walls giving it the mood of a sanctuary of therapy rather than a place concerned with law and order.
Newman let out that unnatural half-cough he always did before having to say something awkward. Rio tensed; was she about to be booted off the case?
‘Assistant Commissioner Tripple just wanted you to update her on the current case—’
‘Are this morning’s murders related to the incidence of house robberies in the Home Counties?’ the older woman enquired over Newman. Her question blunt, her voice hinting at the city of Manchester she hadn’t lived in for over twenty years.
‘Looks like the same MO,’ Rio swiftly answered. ‘The bodies were discovered this morning by the gardener—’
‘How can you be so sure—?’
It was Rio’s turn to interrupt. ‘There’s a witness. Young girl: the niece of two of the murder victims. She’s different from our other witnesses – the gang didn’t know she was at the scene. But we’ve got a problem. The girl has a solicitor who has convinced her parents that she’s too traumatised to talk at present. And when I do get to question her they insist that he be present.’ Rio drew in a breath. Let it out. Paused. ‘It’s Stephen Foster.’
That pushed the AC to her feet, irritation pulling the skin tight around her mouth. ‘That man . . .’ Her lips clamped together. ‘Whatever you do make sure he does not have anything to come knocking at my door about. But do what you have to do to get that information from the witness. We’re getting a lot of heat from some powerful people to get this investigation resolved. We need to get this gang closed down and behind bars, because some of the great and good of Surrey are starting to feel like they’re living in downtown South-Central L.A.’
Her chin thrust out. ‘I’ve assured Surrey’s Police and Crime Commissioner’ – there was something about the way AC Tripple said the title that showed she didn’t quite approve of the role – ‘that the person heading up this task force is one of my most competent and efficient officers.’
The appointment of Police and Crime Commissioners were seen by many as a way for the politicians to interfere in the work of the police; many inside the Force weren’t happy, and it appeared that the Assistant Commissioner was among their number. She continued: ‘You’ve been on this case for just over two weeks, so, with this new incident, I expect something drastic to happen, especially if you now have another witness who the gang knew nothing about. We can’t afford any more murders. I trust you to get this job done quickly.’
And without another word the Assistant Commissioner headed for the door and was gone. Rio and her boss sat in the heavy tension left behind.
Newman broke the silence. ‘Are you sure this case is related to the others?’
Rio nodded. ‘What worries me this time is the level of violence used. The victims were the householders – Maurice and Linda Bell – and their cleaner. We still need to make formal IDs, but I’ve little doubt that their photos, which will have been patched through to us by now, will be joining the other victims of this gang already in the situation room.’
‘You need to get this case cleaned up ASAP.’
‘Then why give me Jack Strong as tag partner on my team?’
‘Ah. Jack.’
Instead of continuing, Newman pulled open the top drawer of his desk and whipped out a packet of low tar ciggies. He stood and opened the window behind his desk. The surprisingly mild February air breezed into the room as he lit up, going against anti-smoking regulations. He leaned his face close to the window as he pulled in a deep shot of smoke and nicotine. His shoulders sagged and rose with the motion of smoking.
‘I need you to look after him,’ he finally said.
Rio instantly looked down at the faint scars on both her wrists, her face heating and her mind blurring with memories she’d fought hard to forget. ‘Not that, sir. I can’t do that again.’
There were four of them in the room now: Rio, Newman, Strong and the member of her team who was now dead, twenty-seven-year-old Jamie Martin. Murdered – throat severed, on her watch, when Newman had given her the task to mentor him in his first year as a detective. The fact that his attacker had also nearly killed her by slashing her wrists didn’t give her the peace she was desperate to find. Everyone had told her that the grief would go and they were right. But what stayed with her every day, digging deeper when she shut her eyes at night, was the guilt. She should’ve protected him in that house in Camden and she hadn’t.
‘I’m sure you’ll understand that protection is the last thing I feel towards Strong,’ Rio uttered. ‘With all due respect, sir, putting him with a black officer is not the wisest decision.’
Four years ago Jack Strong had been a Detective Inspector, the lead of his own team. He’d always been considered one of the boys, a bit of a loud mouth, but with old school experience and instincts that were much admired. That was until the day his team had stopped and searched an injured Somali teenager after a vicious mugging in South London. Instead of taking him to the hospital or getting him medical attention, Strong had detained him and slung him in a cell. Two hours later Yusuf Ishmail was dead. The Met had not only had to deal with the outraged cry of the black community but also that of the Muslim one as well, in the week leading up to Eid, the most important religious festival in the Islamic calendar. Turned out that the teenager had been attacked on his way home from Mosque by thugs who have never been found.
The Met Commissioner had spent the better part of the following year trying to regain the communities’ trust at a time when young Somali men were complaining that they were twice as likely to be
stopped by the police because they were both black and Muslim. Strong had been suspended but, to Rio’s disgust, allowed to come back, with a demotion to the rank of plain detective. Plus he’d been made to undergo intensive ‘race awareness and inclusion’ training. Rio would’ve laughed at the last if the whole business hadn’t been so serious. As far as she was concerned, once a bad cop always a bad cop.
Newman tipped his head to face her and she was surprised to see the wistful expression in his eyes. ‘Did you know that me and Jack started out together?’
Rio merely folded her arms. Newman trying to drag her through a trip down memory lane wasn’t going to move her.
‘We did our training at Hendon and walked the beat for the first three years side-by-side.’ He pulled in another puff of smoke and angled his head back towards the window. ‘We were both ambitious, but in different ways. I wanted to be part of the decision makers, while Strong was happy to stay at the grassroots among the men . . . You know, rolling his sleeves up every day and getting stuck into the filth.’ He flicked his butt out of the window. Closed it. Turned fully to Rio.
‘He was a great cop. Then something happened to him that made him lose his way.’
‘We’ve all lost our way every now and again, sir, but would we ignore the desperate pleas of a dying teenager?’
Newman didn’t answer; instead he sat back at his desk.
‘You know that I’m going to retire in a month’s time,’ he said quietly. ‘Well, so is Jack. All he wants in his last month on the job is to be elbow deep in a case that gets his adrenaline racing.’
‘I’m not hosting a fairground roller coaster called The Metropolitan Police Service Adventure Ride—’
‘No, but you are under my command and will do what you’re told.’ Rio knew when it was wise to keep her mouth well and truly closed. ‘Remember, Wray, that I’m on the cusp of putting your name forwards to take my place.’
Although Rio felt the pride that came with his words, she didn’t like that the job came with strings attached.
‘I thought you were doing that because you consider me the best person for the job.’
‘I do. That’s why I know you’re going to make Strong’s last days in the Force ones for him to put in his photo album.’
‘If he slips up once . . .’ Rio held up a finger. ‘You’re going to have to find someone else to provide fun and games for Jack.’
Rio got up to leave.
‘And Wray . . .?’
Rio turned back around.
‘You heard the Assistant Commissioner, so I don’t have to tell you how high profile this case is. You need to get this job done. Quickly. If finding this gang proves hard you may want to think about enlisting some outside help.’
‘Outside help? Like a CI?’ Using confidential informants was common practice.
He shook his head. ‘I’m thinking more of a specialist. A security consultant with his ear to the ground.’
Astonishment gripped Rio’s face because she knew whose name he was going to slot into that role.
‘Someone like Calum Burns.’
seven
11:35 a.m.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Profanity was the only decent way Rio knew how to respond to hearing Calum Burns’ name. Former cop. No: disgraced former cop, now doing his own thing in the world of security consultancy. Rio leaned the flat of her hand against the wall of the stairwell leading up to her office to stop the emotions burning her up. That’s what Calum did to her: made her steaming, badass mad, and vulnerable; he was one of the only people who could make her think the ground wasn’t beneath her feet.
Newman was wrong – no way could she ask Calum for a little bit of assistance on the side. Not because he wouldn’t prove up to the task – quite the opposite, Calum was a man with his nose stuck in all types of ‘wrong places’ that could prove beneficial to this case. But what lay between them, thick and unresolved, was somewhere she wasn’t going back to.
Rio hitched herself off the wall, got back on with her job. Less than a minute later she entered the operation room.
‘Nicola Bell. Sixteen years old. A very special witness.’ Rio’s voice was confident and loud enough to get the full attention of her team.
Most of the team were made up of the six detectives she usually worked with, but there were two others who were on loan from the original police squad working on the investigation in Surrey. And now there was Jack Strong. Rio saw him out of the corner of her eye, as she moved further into the room. He sat, arms folded, perched on a desk on the margins of the rest of the team. Her desk, committing one of the cardinal sins in Rio’s squad – never, EVER invade her space, including thinking her desk was some kind of easy chair. But Rio let it alone . . . for now.
She stopped in front of the huge, freestanding whiteboard that had all the information relating to the investigation, using arrows to link photographs and writing about the previous raids in Surrey, and a large map with red lines and circles indicating key locations. Rio wanted to shake the team up so she pulled two photographs off the board and added three from a folder that was stationed near the board. She stuck them on the board.
‘Murder.’ Rio stabbed her finger against the gruesome image of Linda Bell, throat slashed, in her own kitchen.
‘Murder.’ She did the same to the photo of Maurice Bell.
‘Murder.’ Ania, the cleaner.
‘Murder.’ A gruesome shot of a woman with her face blown away.
The silence in the room was chilling – exactly what Rio wanted.
‘That’s what we’re dealing with.’ Her voice cut thickly through the quiet. ‘A gang of men who, in the last six weeks, have graduated from robbery, terrorising people and holding them against their will to the ultimate crime – the taking of human life.’ Rio zeroed her gaze onto one member of her team. ‘Detective Richmond, outline for us what we know about this gang’s MO so far.’
She could have used his first name but she wanted to keep everything very formal to ensure that the gravity and urgency of their investigation remained in place.
Detective Peter Richmond was one of the Surrey officers, young, fresh-faced and – most importantly for Rio – keen. As he began to talk, Rio began to write the gang’s pattern of brutal home invasion on the second whiteboard:
Targets: high-end properties that are secluded but have access to main roads a few miles away.
All raids within a 40-mile radius of London, so the press have started calling them Greenbelt Gang.
Arrival time: around 5 or 6 in the morning when all the occupants of the houses are still in bed.
Transportation: unknown. Obvious way is by vehicle but none of our witnesses have heard one. Assumption is they park up and walk the last few miles or maybe – a very weak maybe – use bikes although there’s no evidence of that. They’d need adequate transport to carry stolen items away.
One member of the gang takes down any CCTV. Sprays the lens with paint from a can. Uses a paint gun for those mounted on poles. He’s very accurate.
He’s the only member of the gang we have photos of.
The team all looked over at the first whiteboard, which displayed two camera stills of someone dressed in black wearing a clown mask. The mask dominated the shot because the camera lens was looking down. And it was scary. Yellow curly hair, white, rubber skin, eyes painted demon black and red mouth set in an obscene wide grin, belching beige stained teeth and bumpy, enlarged bottom gum.
Detective Richmond started talking again and Rio continued to write:
Point of entry: Back of the house. Use silencers to shoot out windows to get in.
Collect spent bullets they’ve used.
Short the electrical supply. Disables any security. Keeps the house in darkness so as to terrify the residents.
High-powered flashlights to find their way around with the added bonus that the occupants can’t see them properly.
Descriptions: black boiler suits and clown masks. In
distinguishable from one another.
Round up everyone they find in the house together.
Douse the most vulnerable person in petrol and threaten to set them on fire unless they’re led to the valuables. Raid 3 they waved a lighter around.
First four raids, only one member of the gang did the talking, which we know from the voice picked up via the paint-sprayed security cams. Voice distorted by nitrous oxide so his voice was disguised and, of course, that effect frightened the residents even more.
What’s taken? High-ticket items they’ve been shown. And then escape. Can’t put an exact figure on the sums stolen. Estimate up to the value of a half million pounds.
No trace of anything from their haul has turned up on the radar yet.
Rio stopped writing as she interrupted the young member of her team. ‘With raid five we know that things changed.’ Richmond knew that was his cue to give Rio back the floor.
‘On raid five, the victims were a newly married couple. The wife was shot point blank in the face while the husband survived.’
Rio moved to the other whiteboard and stabbed her finger below the photograph of the corpse without a face. ‘Her name was Rubina Ali. She’d been married for two weeks, worked as a financial analyst in the City and was planning to have her first child next year. That life has now been smashed because our gang of thieves decided to turn into a band of bloodthirsty men. She was home alone. What was picked up by the audio of the sprayed security cameras was that the shooter seemed jumpy and aggressive. There was no reason for the murder. The gang had the valuables. And there was the sound of a scuffle after the gunshot. Maybe the rest of the gang were trying to restrain the shooter.’
Rio stopped and let her gaze span her team. She got ready to ask a question, but a voice she didn’t want to hear interrupted her.
Jack Strong: ‘The shooter was probably someone who joined the gang for the first time.’
Rio ignored him. That was the best way to deal with Mr Useless who had been dumped on her.
Death Trap Page 4
