by Alex Caan
‘Is that all you give a fuck about, Harris? Maybe you should be on YouTube instead. Fame whore,’ said Stevie.
‘We used to be so happy together,’ muttered Rob.
‘There’s a direct threat at the end of that video. It’s about instilling confidence in the public,’ said Zain.
‘Is that what you used to do before? Pretend there was a terror threat, haul a few bearded robe-wearers into jail, and then tell us we were all safe?’ said Stevie.
‘Why are Mummy and Daddy fighting?’ said Rob.
‘They haven’t shagged since you came along,’ said Zain.
‘Some urgency, please. I don’t want a second murder on my hands. Do any of you? Pelt, why aren’t you in CSI overalls? Brennan, where are my bodies on the ground? Michelle?’
The three of them left, Stevie narrowing her eyes at Zain as she did.
‘Don’t wind her up,’ said Kate.
‘Who?’
‘Both of them.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Brennan has a stick up her rear, has done since I turned up,’ he said.
‘Since you turned up promoted to the role she wanted,’ said Kate.
‘She can speak to Hope about that. And yourself. You both hired me.’
‘Just be aware; she’s sensitive.’
‘And what about Cable? What’s her problem? I’m just trying to help her,’ said Zain.
‘By showing her up? How do you know she doesn’t have her own software?’
‘Because she doesn’t. I didn’t write this stuff; I just borrowed it from SO15.’
‘Give Michelle a break. This isn’t SO15. Get used to the pace.’
Kate didn’t have to say anything else; Zain should realise the implied threat.
‘Now go and make peace. I want you to spend the next half hour making calls for Brennan. Including the ones you think are beneath you. And then I want you to think of something nice to say to Michelle. Praise her skills. Even if you have to lie.’
‘Yes, boss,’ he said.
‘And have a think; who might be next, who is the video referring to? Meanwhile, I’ll go and brief Justin Hope,’ she said. ‘He’s finally hit the headlines, I’m sure he wants to know all about it so he can have his fifteen minutes.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
The Westminster Police Crime Commissioner was having bespoke offices built at Scotland Yard for his teams. Until then, they had rented out office space in Regus House, on Bressenden Place. A skyscraper, cutting twenty floors into the London sky. From the rear side, the windows looked into Buckingham Palace’s gardens.
The PCC occupied the top two floors of the building.
The uppermost floor was split in two. Exiting from the lifts, you turned left to the hub of law enforcement staff. The Special Operations Executive teams, plus a number of others under Hope’s control: Transport, Security, Diplomatic Protection, Immigration, Fraud, Business. Units like hers, manned by specialists, with an opaque agenda.
Turning right out of the lifts, you came to a section for the executive offices. Justin Hope’s plus those of Kate’s own boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Julie Trent, along with the other DCS staff and the assistant commissioner, Mark Oakden.
Kate used her electronic fob to access the executive reception area. The doors opened up to reveal two police officers, carrying Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbines. Behind the armed women was a receptionist with patrician features and iron-grey hair, to match the steel in her eyes.
‘Deborah,’ said Kate, approaching her for the second round of formal identification. ‘Is he in?’
Deborah Scarr checked Kate’s badge, scanned her fob card again, and pressed a button that opened up inner glass doors.
‘Yes. Dreadful, isn’t it? I saw it on the news,’ said Deborah. She was whispering, which was pointless. The armed officers could hear every word, no matter how quiet she was.
Kate walked through the open doors, which glided shut behind her. The corridor that lay ahead of Kate had offices leading off it on both sides. She first tried Trent’s door, got no reply. She would have liked some moral support.
Justin Hope’s was the last door on the right. Kate knocked.
Kate felt bile rise in her throat and the heat pulse through her. It was searing, anger shooting through her brain, her heart hammering in her ribcage.
‘I appreciate your concerns, commissioner, and your desire for transparency, but I have to object. I am heading up one of the most complicated cases I have been involved in. There are scant leads or information, and my team are already under tremendous stress. We are doing our best.’
‘Tremendous stress? Interesting choice of words. Try dealing with the stress that comes from the home secretary calling, raising concerns from the prime minister.’
Hope steepled his fingers in front of his face, rested his chin on them, looked at her expectantly.
‘Not to question those in authority, but why are they so interested in Ruby Day?’ said Kate.
‘She is news. It is as simple as that. And it’s time for me to justify what we do, the funds they send our way. I am relying on you and your team.’
‘And they will deliver; exerting pressure on them will not help. It runs the risk of compromising my investigation, sir.’
‘Make sure they do deliver. All our necks are on the line with this one.’
Hope relaxed his hands, wiped them over the surface of his desk. Drawing a line under their ‘discussion’.
‘So how do we compare to Washington DC?’ he said, his voice slimy.
Kate narrowed her eyes. She didn’t mean to.
Did he know why she had to get away?
No, she must not think like that, she must not let paranoia in.
‘A sprawling metropolis with government at its heart? I think our patch is similar in some ways,’ Kate said instead.
It was like playing tennis. The way he started and stopped elements of the conversation.
‘You must trust your team?’ he said.
‘They are the best at what they do. I trust them to do their jobs without being monitored as though in kindergarten,’ said Kate. ‘You sat in on the interviews; you know what each one brings. Did any of them strike you as incompetent?’
‘How is the boy wonder getting on?’ he said.
‘Which one?’ said Kate.
‘Don’t be obtuse, you know which one.’
‘I have two detective sergeants that are male,’ she said.
‘Harris. How is he getting on?’
Why was he interested? Why him in particular?
‘Hard to be objective at this stage; this is his first case with me.’
‘Do you trust him?’
Shouldn’t I?
‘I have no reason not to,’ she said.
‘Any concerns, I want you to flag them up to me directly.’
Surely she should flag them up to Trent? As her immediate superior in the hierarchy? It was Trent’s job to inform Hope. There was a long pause as unspoken awareness of this chain of command hung between them.
‘DCS Trent has had to take a leave of absence,’ Hope said. Slowly, carefully.
Kate felt her lungs fill, the air clogging them like molasses. She swallowed back a cry as the shock took a second to pass through her.
‘I spoke to her earlier today, with an update on the Ruby Day case,’ she said. ‘She didn’t mention it to me.’
‘I asked her not to. Wouldn’t want your attention diverted from the investigation.’
Kate felt the force of his sarcasm. She bristled, wanted to snap back. Held it in. She needed to speak to Trent, find out what had gone on.
‘Is it health-related?’
‘Data protection; I wouldn’t like to say. There should be no effect, for now. Any duties she performed, you can rely on me for. Starting with a press conference. I want the Days primed; I expect them on the news tonight, making a plea for information. I’ll get Comms to draft a statement.’
/> Where was Trent? Kate didn’t like the sensation of not having a buffer between herself and Hope. He made her skin prick. Like a needle on a sewing machine hammering through silk. And if Trent could so easily be set aside, what chance did she have?
Chapter Thirty-eight
Justin Hope looked out of his window into the gardens of Buckingham Palace. It was a prestigious view; it conveyed gravitas to any of the MPs and ministers parading through his office. The mayor, and not to mention Met commissioner Sonya Varley. He loved watching her taking it in and remembering that he had a huge chunk of her budget.
Not bad for the son of immigrants from St Lucia. His bus driver father and care home worker mother had instilled a self belief in him that had helped propel him to the top. And he made sure he worked twice as hard as everyone else around him. He didn’t want the accusation that he got where he was because of a quota or his skin colour thrown at him. He got there through his own hard work and determination.
Yes, the view was something else. A manifestation of his success. Hope was half tempted to cancel the refurb secretly taking place at St James’s, to stay put at Bressenden Place. The rumour that they were moving into Scotland Yard HQ was pure fabrication. He would never allow the Met to control his access and security.
DCI Riley was an interesting choice, he thought. Trent had been keen on her, so he had acquiesced. She had too much of something he hated, though. Self-righteousness. It poured from her. In her narrowed eyes, the confidence with which she sat and spoke. Part of him was glad to see her so confused by the Ruby Day murder.
In just over a day it had gone from a missing person’s case to a kidnapping, and now it was murder, verging on serial killing. A high-profile investigation, one to win him plaudits and recognition. He had heard the whispers, the sneers, the seething resentment. Why do we need a commissioner? It was a waste of public money. For too long he hadn’t been able to show them otherwise, but now he could.
Trent was thorny, was asking too many of the right questions. He felt a burning anger again at the audacity of the woman, and the sheer ignorance. He was her boss; she wasn’t paid to question him. Getting rid of her was easy. He didn’t owe her or anyone else an explanation.
As long as she kept quiet, and if she was as smart as her career trajectory suggested, she would. Wait it out, let him calm down. She could be back when the time was right. Now she had tasted his power, she would be less inclined to contradict him.
Trent, just like Riley. Women with integrity. The worst kind.
He poured himself a Scotch. Diluted it with water. A small celebration.
‘To Ruby,’ he said, toasting his reflection in the glass of his window. Ghostly against the fading light of London.
He opened his desk drawer, took out his scrambler. It was technology spooks used. Hope attached his phone to it, dialled.
‘You took your time,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘I don’t take kindly to delays, commissioner.’
‘I had some housekeeping I needed to attend to,’ said Hope. ‘Trent is gone; I’m controlling this investigation now. I’ve kept to my side of this little arrangement. I hope I can assume the same of yourself?’
‘I want to see how this plays out. Once the boyfriend is locked up, I will,’ said the voice.
‘I can’t promise that. He might be innocent.’
‘His innocence is irrelevant. Just get him arrested and charged.’
Hope thought of Riley, the assurance that the investigation was heading just that way. Daniel Grant was their only vaguely suspect person. Hope would push it. It would be a distraction, at least.
‘I will try,’ said Hope. ‘I have to be careful, though. There’s now a direct threat to someone else. It’s a risk.’
‘I don’t appreciate people who let me down. You should know that by now.’
‘Of course. And I hope you reward those who help you appropriately?’ said Hope.
There was silence on the other end. The call had ended.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Rob Pelt could tell she would look good naked. Quite a feat since she was buttoned up in CSI white, digging through the rubbish bag in the Days’ kitchen.
‘Jess, is it?’ he said.
She looked up, hands full of decaying vegetables, baked beans. The smell was rough. Her eyes were dark. Long lashes.
‘That’s not me, that rotting stench,’ he said. ‘Unless it’s the new aftershave I’m trying. Here, have a sniff.’
He presented his neck, tapping the plastic overall covering it. Was she smiling? Hard to tell through the face cover. She started sorting through the detritus in her hands.
Rob let her be; he would pursue her later.
He looked out from the kitchen window into the courtyard of Windsor Court. His mind searched for exit points. How could you get out of this building unseen?
A detective constable came in, uniformed, part of Brennan’s team of recruits. ‘The caretaker’s back,’ he said.
‘Cheers. Don’t miss me too much,’ said Rob, but Jess ignored him.
The caretaker, Charlie Grey, was in his early sixties, forced by recession and draining pensions to keep working. Rob had no interest in the guy’s life story, but sat patiently listening, the CSI suit pulled down from his head, his face mask in his hands.
‘You’re responsible for the CCTV?’ Rob said, when the guy was done with stories about his wife and kids. Who didn’t live with him.
‘Yeah, I just keep it running. It used to be on tapes, but they changed it. The building company, they got all fancy. Now I push a button, and check the light is green. Don’t ask me to explain.’
Rob asked to see it instead. It was set up in what must have been a boiler room at one time, a small hall cupboard. There were two screens monitoring the two main doorways, and a green light on the control.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘You know the Day family well?’
‘Yeah, they’ve been living there for about eighteen months. Polite when I see them. Don’t have much cause to, though.’
‘Ever heard anything odd? Shouting, arguments?’
‘No, they’re good people,’ said Charlie.
‘All families argue,’ said Rob. ‘Even good ones.’
‘I keep to myself, detective, until I’m needed.’
‘They ever need you?’
‘They had a problem in the bathroom. The waste water disposal under the tub started leaking. I fixed that.’
‘Notice anything unusual?’
‘No. I fixed the disposal, they made me tea, I left.’
‘No strange visitors? You ever see Dan Grant, Ruby’s boyfriend?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Can’t say I ever did. I have a lot to do. Keeping the communal areas clean, the gardens. All the things that go wrong, get broken.’
‘The Days close to any other residents?’
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed, but nobody is in this place. They say hello when they pass each other, but generally they ignore each other. You know how it is these days. Not like it used to be.’
Rob groaned inside. Charlie Grey was sounding like his dad. Rob asked him to play, on fast forward, the video for both exits for the half hour during which Ruby was meant to have left.
‘How could Ruby get out without using those doors?’ said Rob.
‘I have no clue. Unless she didn’t leave?’
Rob looked at the old man hard, looked at the live screens in front of him. People were moving in opposite directions, mainly CSIs and ground troops.
‘She left,’ he said.
Unless she really didn’t. Something formed itself inside his mind. What if the videos had been recorded previously? What if her disappearance was a hoax? Or Ruby was made somehow to take part in their recording, and actually she disappeared in the building and was being held somewhere in Windsor Court?
‘If she was,’ he said to Charlie, ‘holed up in here somewhere, which one of your dozens of flats would you say she would be in? Which of the r
esidents is a nut job?’
Charlie shrugged, shook his head.
Jess was no longer in the kitchen. Zain and Kate were with the parents in the lounge. FLO was asleep in a police car out back. She said she only needed twenty minutes, a power nap.
Rob thought more about the idea he was starting to believe in. The online videos of Ruby as a double bluff.
Looking out of the kitchen window, he saw the flat opposite, one floor up. It had a direct view into the Days’ flat. Rob headed over.
Chapter Forty
The woman who opened the door was a type. A woman married to a man who earned a lot, who spent time perfecting their home. She was in her early fifties, late forties, maybe. Although with moneyed women, Rob couldn’t always tell.
‘Sorry to bother you, I’m Detective Sergeant Robin Pelt. I’m here about Ruby Day?’
‘Of course you are. It’s shocking, isn’t it? Something like this happening to someone in this building. Come in.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
The flat was as he expected. Wooden floors, thick white carpets. She made him take his shoes off.
‘I’m Vanessa Tan,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, I’m OK, thanks. Odd question, but do you mind if I have a look out of your windows?’
‘Of course, help yourself,’ said Vanessa, looking perplexed but not offended.
Rob looked out of the lounge windows. They faced Edgware Road.
‘Do these open?’ he said.
‘Yes. They have locks on them; let me get you the key,’ she said.
Rob saw pictures of Vanessa with her husband and their children. They must be out. At piano or ballet practice, whatever kids growing up in places like this did.
Vanessa unlocked the middle set of windows, which Rob pulled up. She even smelled expensive, as she stood next to him.
The drop from the window wasn’t so high you would damage yourself. Maybe eight feet. You’d have to calculate your landing, and there was gravel all around the building. Using the window, Ruby could have made it out to the main road.
