by Sarah Flint
‘And why he knew we were on to him,’ Hunter added.
Charlie felt the colour drain from her cheeks at the thought of Powell’s dead body hanging grotesquely from the electrical cable. ‘And why he chose to kill himself rather than spend the rest of his life in prison.’
*
In the silence that followed, the implication of Declan O’Connor’s words was not lost on any of them.
‘Our conversation goes absolutely no further than these four walls.’ The DCI stood up again and pulled at his already loose tie, looking round at each of them individually. ‘We will be investigating the investigators.’
‘I know Ray Hooper, the Chief Superintendent at DPS, and I trust him implicitly,’ he continued. ‘I’ve got the work phone numbers of both women already in my contacts, but let me know if you find any others they use. I’ll speak to Ray and get everything we can on Hayley Boyle and I’ll ask him to arrange for downloads on both their phone records ASAP. Go home now, but be back in early tomorrow morning… and remember.’ He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped in a number. ‘This will have to be the most confidential operation you are ever likely to be involved in. I can’t have any hint of what we’re about to do getting out. A senior police officer in Lambeth authorising covert work on a leading member of the community is pretty bloody politically explosive. A senior DPS officer investigating another ranked DPS officer is even worse; it’s like pressing the button on a nuclear warhead. If the public found out that the officers investigating bent police officers are corrupt themselves, the fallout would be worse than anything even Donald Trump could leave in his wake.’
He smiled weakly at his attempt to lighten the situation, but they all knew that he was deadly serious. Police officers’ lives depended on it.
Chapter 33
Saturday 8th July 2017
Shirley Sangster was very well known to all the officers at Lambeth but not for the usual reasons. Her criminal record showed nothing of note; a couple of arrests as a young woman for shoplifting, along with several public order offences while demonstrating for the rights of others, was pretty much the sum total.
She was a middle-aged, white woman with small piercing eyes that were almost lost in between rounded rosy cheeks and a low forehead. Her eyebrows were thick lines of black pencil and her lips were a slightly brighter shade of red than her cheeks. She habitually wore large hooped earrings and her hair was dyed blonde, cropped over both ears and longer at the top, swept into a small tight ponytail. She was apple-shaped with a larger than average midriff, scrawny legs and sloping shoulders.
Her three boys were her life. All were mixed-race, the product of Shirley and a long-standing Rastafarian partner who liked to share his love around half a dozen local women. Looking at their history of offending, they probably also took up most of her life. Involved in the gang scene from their primary years, they clearly had always done their own thing, freed by the lack of a live-in father and a mother who worshipped their every move. She had spent many hours in the custody office at Brixton police station with her boys and almost as many with social services and whichever correctional facility was dealing with juveniles at the time. Her bark, when it came to her boys, may have been loud, but her bite was clearly toothless.
When they weren’t in prison, the boys spent most of their time on the streets, involved in low-level drug dealing, tit-for-tat fights with other postcode gangs and trying to obtain any firearm or weapon that would bolster their respect. Every arrest ending up with a charge led to an obligatory not-guilty plea at court. Her beautiful boys could never be guilty of wrongdoing and would therefore never admit to a thing.
Shirley had defended them as far as was possible and it was this that had brought her into contact with the lengthy list of people with whom she was now associated, including many of the good, the great and the downright dangerous. Charlie’s job was to try to work out which of the dangerous she might now be grooming.
Hunter, grim-faced and aloof, stayed mainly in his office, as if the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders again. He wasn’t his usual self and Charlie didn’t know what was wrong, or how to fix it. Every now and again he would emerge to shuttle between her, Paul and DCI O’Connor, who had come in to better supervise the investigation, but little was said between them.
By mid-morning Sangster’s phone records had been returned and Charlie was scrolling through them. It read like a who’s who of politics, policing and the public; as expected she had numbers for hundreds of people, including Dennis Walters, Samson Powell, DS Hayley Boyle, DCI O’Connor, and many other senior police officers; leaders of community groups, solicitors, MP’s, and members of staff from the IPCC and the Equality and Human Rights Commission.
It wasn’t really anything more than they didn’t already know, or couldn’t have guessed. Shirley Sangster had connections, but it was not who was of interest, so much as what was said when they did connect… and there were literally thousands of calls and texts logged. The woman must have been on the phone constantly. Texts could be retrieved, but the contents of phone calls would never be known.
Paul was starting the process, noting down any calls made to the associates they were interested in, along with times and dates. There were sporadic calls to each of their suspects and regular ones to Hayley Boyle. To Charlie though, her earlier enthusiasm was melting away because just looking at the reams of paper was filling her with dread. Samson Powell had used a throwaway phone with just one number and that was not shown on Sangster’s list. Nor was there a call made from Shirley’s usual number to Samson’s on the day of his death. It had been the first thing they had checked. But if the woman was switched on, like their murderer appeared to be, she too would have a different phone to the one she used to speak with politicians.
*
At midday DCI O’Connor summoned Paul, Hunter and Charlie to his office to go through any new developments. Hunter’s phone started to ring as they entered, so he switched it to silent. The DCI pulled the door shut, checking the corridor as he did so, as if he expected to see small camera lenses planted in hidden places.
‘What have you found so far?’ he asked, sitting down at his desk.
‘We can prove regular contact between Shirley Sangster and Hayley Boyle, but then we knew that anyway,’ Paul spoke out, referring to the beginnings of his list. ‘Obviously I don’t know what was said in the calls but some are quite lengthy.’
‘I’m still waiting for the call data back on DS Boyle’s phone. It should be arriving shortly.’ DCI O’Connor cleared his throat, before continuing. ‘Ray Hooper is working with us as a matter of priority and he’s called in a trusted inspector as a witness. They’re experts on the technical stuff and IT systems. They have accessed Hayley Boyle’s computer and have discovered that she has created her own spreadsheet detailing all the complaints that have come into her department in South London. There’s absolutely no need for her to do this as every complaint is automatically logged by the admin officer when it arrives. Boyle colour-codes each complaint depending on how serious it is and who is dealing with it and has been making notes on how each investigation is progressing.
‘As you know, she is dealing with Shirley Sangster’s complaint against Leonard Cookson, but she also has access to the complaints against Brian Ashton, Philippa McGovern and Jason Lloyd and these are on her personal spreadsheet too.
‘When the complaints are concluded she colour-codes them green.’ The DCI glanced towards Paul and Charlie. ‘The most worrying issue, though, is that she prints the spreadsheet off about once a fortnight and we don’t know what for. There’s no sign of any of the copies on her desk or in her drawers, so we don’t know what she does with them.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Charlie blurted out. ‘And you think that might be how she is passing on the information?’
‘We don’t know as yet, but needless to say, this sort of thing is contrary to all Data Protection guidelines and is strictly forbidden.
Nothing of that nature should be printed out, and it certainly shouldn’t be leaving the office.’
He paused, running his hands through his hair before shoving them deep into the pockets of his trousers and staring round at them all. ‘And, worse still, you are all well aware that DPS have access to all our duties on CARMS, when we book on and off and take leave, etc. Well, Ray did a check on Hayley Boyle’s search history and in the last month, amongst others, she has checked the records of all of our victims.’
Charlie shook her head. It was unbelievable that this could be happening.
‘So she would have known what duties they were supposed to be on… and the fact that Philippa McGovern had annual leave booked?’
DCI O’Connor nodded. ‘Yes she would, and DPS have access to every officer’s personal details. In fact, they pretty much have access to everything in this job and they can use the same methods as we use in our criminal investigations to catch us out. It’s worth remembering that.’
He glanced around at the three of them before logging into his computer and clicking on the list of recent emails.
‘Here you go. Hayley Boyle’s download has just come through,’ he said, pressing print and getting up. ‘Do you want to take a look, while it’s printing?’
Charlie and Paul shot up from their chairs and made their way round while the printer whirred into action. A quick search of the contacts showed that Shirley Sangster’s personal phone number came up a great many times, corroborating the fact that they spoke regularly to each other.
Charlie turned towards Paul. ‘Take a look at the calls made the morning of Samson Powell’s suicide. There should be communication between her and Sangster if Boyle passed on the fact that we’d identified Powell.’
Paul typed in the date, Monday 26/06/2017 and they watched the list of calls appear on the screen. At exactly 09.09 Shirley Sangster’s number appeared in an incoming call to Hayley Boyle. The call lasted for eight minutes finishing at 09.17. A list of data then appeared, some numbers had no names, some names she recognised as officers, some had notes of who they were and where they worked. Charlie could feel her frustration growing again. The call would have been before Powell had been identified, and needed to have been outgoing.
Paul kept scrolling slowly down the list until 11.50 when Charlie watched an incoming unnamed number pop up on the screen… a number that was fixed indelibly in her memory… a number that had been attached to a three-lettered word.
‘That’s the same number as Samson Powell had on the phone he threw away, just before he killed himself,’ she exclaimed excitedly, pointing at the screen. ‘The only number on the SIM card.’
‘Did you ever get anything else on it?’ Hunter asked.
‘No, in the end all we got was the name “ICE” on the SIM. There was no trace on any of our systems of the same number and it was unregistered, as I’d expected.’ She turned to the DCI. ‘And the actual phone was too badly water-damaged to get anything more. It was a “burner” phone, probably just to be used during one murder and thrown away. Whoever was using this number probably did the same.’ She paused, still staring at the computer screen. ‘So… both he and DS Hayley Boyle spoke to the same number, “ICE”, whoever he or she is?’
The room went quiet, each person processing the information.
‘Isn’t that the name for next of kin to be contacted “in case of emergency”?’ Declan O’Connor picked up the printout. ‘My teenage daughter has it on her phone.’
‘Yes, that’s right, sir.’ Charlie suddenly thought back to the previous evening. ‘And isn’t that what Dennis Walters instructed Lisa Forrester to specifically say. “Contact Shirley Sangster and tell her it’s an emergency. She’ll know what to do.”’
*
Today was to be a day to remember. Storm clouds were already gathering and the air smouldered with pent-up rage. The wind had dropped. Everything was still; even time had stopped; every single second waiting for the next chapter to be put into motion.
Tonight would be another night when all the years of careful planning would come to fruition. It had been a long process of selection, grooming, training, watching as the choices were whittled away. The executioners were almost as flawed as the bastards chosen to die; weak, pathetic specimens who didn’t deserve the accolade of being chosen.
The vision of Samson falling through the darkness swam into Ice’s mind, the moment when the cable tightened around his neck playing and replaying. It would have been good to watch him die… but now there was another.
Number Two was primed and ready. The parcel had been delivered; the instructions given, the chase about to commence. Ice shuddered with pleasure at the thought, but a note of caution resonated; care would be required. Number Two wasn’t like Samson. Samson had been strong-willed while this one was fragile; strong in body but delicate in mind, chosen and moulded for exactly this reason. This one was desperate to please, but this one needed closer supervision.
A noise broke through the silence; the thud of footsteps as the neighbours returned, slamming through the door, pounding and pounding across the flooring, dragging Ice back to her childhood, hiding behind the armchair. She watched, trembling, as her father meted out his violence, the black boots, uniform trousers, epaulettes, symbols of his dominance and infallibility. She saw her mother’s body lying broken at the foot of the stairs again. She heard his voice singing, each word mocking their frailty, sweating with pleasure as he hunted her out. But this time he couldn’t find her. He wouldn’t find her.
This time the power would be hers.
Tonight, she would be there watching, waiting, taking part. This one had been specially selected. This one used violence, just as her father had; and this one had also got away with the crime. She wanted to watch this one die. It would be a fitting epitaph.
A cat yowled in a nearby yard breaking her reverie. Anticipation crackled all around in the hot, balmy air. She bent down, picking up the single red rose that lay on the cabinet, feeling the thorns, sharp on its stem. Carefully, she snapped one off, before pushing it into the soft skin of her hand, trembling momentarily at the prick of pain as the blood rushed to the surface. With pain came pleasure. She lifted her hand, sucking on the tiny wound, licking away the small globule of sweet-tasting blood as it appeared. The pain receded as she concentrated on the hours to come.
If everything went to plan the pleasure would be intense.
Chapter 34
The call from Lisa Forrester took Charlie by surprise. She pressed the phone to her ear as Hunter, Paul and the DCI hushed. She could barely make out the whispered words, but the meaning was clear.
‘Dennis has just come in. ’E’s busy in the other room, so I thought I’d catch you quick. I weren’t expecting ’im back this soon, but Shirley must ’ave sprung ’im. I only got round to speaking to ’er this morning. Wanted a quiet night to meself last night, see. You said for me to tell yer if there was something ’appening, right?’ She paused.
‘Yes that’s right, what’s happened, Lisa?’
‘Well, Shirley weren’t happy when I said ’e was in the nick. Not happy at all; started swearing and cursing. Said I ’ad to be bleedin’ jokin’, she ’as something arranged for ’im to do this evening but didn’t say what, an’ I didn’t ask. I know better than that. When I left, she said she would get straight on to it. Seems like she ’as. She’s a bloody miracle worker. I know who to call next time I’m in bother meself now.’
The phone went dead before Charlie could say anything more, ringing off to the sound of laughter. Once again it appeared that Shirley Sangster was making a mockery of the system. She tapped in the number to Brixton custody office and confirmed the news, shaking her head at the custody sergeant’s words.
When she rang off, the others were all staring at her open-mouthed.
Charlie shoved her phone in her pocket. ‘They’ve released Dennis Walters,’ she said flatly. ‘Shirley Sangster turned up at the front office with Justin Latchm
ere kicking off and they’ve managed to get him bailed out.’
‘On what grounds?’ Hunter was fuming.
‘On the grounds that we know who he is and where he lives… and we haven’t been able to get the drugs analysed yet, or the phone downloaded. The custody sergeant didn’t think that would be possible within the twenty-four hours that we have, particularly with it being the weekend. Apparently, he’s been trying to contact you for the last hour or so, guv,’ she looked towards Hunter. ‘But he couldn’t get through, so in the end he made the decision to bail him for six weeks. Oh, and he kept Walters’ phone obviously, so it can be downloaded, so now we don’t even have a number for him.’
Hunter pulled his phone out and swore. She could see from where she stood that the screen was showing seven missed calls. ‘Damn it. He could have waited until we did make contact.’
‘I think he thought he was doing us a favour. He didn’t know the background to Walters’ arrest, just that he was in for possession with intent… which is two a penny in Lambeth.’
‘Maybe if you’d answered your phone,’ DCI O’Connor commented, raising his eyebrows at Hunter. ‘This wouldn’t have happened.’
Hunter shot to his feet, frowning angrily. ‘Maybe, with respect sir, you’d like to take over. I’ll be going with Naz and Sabira to Heathrow, as planned, to assist them in arresting their suspect. I was going to arrange a replacement to stand in for me, but I can see I’m obviously more of a hindrance here. I’d be better use with them.’
With that, Hunter turned tail and disappeared out through the door. Charlie watched as he stormed away, she’d never seen him react in that way before. She made her excuses and went after him, but by the time she’d caught up, he was talking to Naz and Sabira in the office.
