Fault Lines

by Natasha Cooper

  Blair Collons was swallowing hard. His putty-coloured face had taken on a greenish tinge and he was sweating like a pig.

  Femur grabbed the bin and thrust it across the desk. He was only just in time. Collons threw up. Femur had to turn away. He shouldn’t have been so squeamish, but the noise and the smell, quite apart from the sight, of anyone being sick had always revolted him. Hot liquid burst into his own mouth and for a moment he was afraid he was going to join Collons in paroxysms of vomiting. Femur told the tape what had happened and that the interview was terminated.

  Then he stopped the machine, and opened the door to call for a uniform. When the constable came, a fresh-faced girl who looked like a school-leaver, Femur asked her to send for the doctor and get hold of some water and some tissues and someone to clear up vomit.

  Then he waited with Collons until the doctor came, glaring at Femur as though he were Herod. He left them to it, told the custody sergeant to phone through as soon as Collons was certified fit to leave or be questioned again, and went painfully back to the incident room.

  ‘I did you an injustice, Tony,’ he said, stopping by his desk.

  ‘What, Guv?’

  ‘I was angry that you’d bullied Collons, stopped him giving us everything he had, and then I went and did exactly the same. Only worse.’

  Blacker stopped picking at his ear. ‘It’s the thought of him with a woman like Kara. D’you reckon he did it?’

  Femur shrugged. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He cared more than he could say, but he still hadn’t any proof. ‘Try and get me Trish Maguire on the phone again, will you?’

  Femur watched him dial and then wait, his mouth half open, before he spoke, obviously leaving a message on her machine. Femur shook his head in disgust and went into his own office. He couldn’t think what Maguire was playing at.

  There was a batch of phone messages on his desk, taken by the overnight desk sergeant. Femur leafed through them, then sat staring at the one at the bottom. It had come in from a nick in Southwark, informing him that Trish Maguire had been attacked in her flat by a man with a sharpened screwdriver.

  Femur phoned through at once, only to be told that the officers who’d sent the message had gone off shift and no one on duty at the moment knew anything. After pulling rank and nearly losing his temper, he persuaded someone to look at the paperwork left by the preceding relief.

  It took nearly five minutes, but then Femur was able to listen to an account of everything that had happened to Maguire. Half-way through, impatience got the better of him and he asked whether Maguire had given any description of the assailant. She had, the voice at the other end of the phone told him before laboriously reading it out. It wasn’t much, but she’d said enough to prove to Femur that the attacker couldn’t have been Blair Collons.

  Having checked that the screwdriver and balaclava mentioned in the report had been properly preserved in the right sort of evidence bags, Femur arranged to have them sent directly to the lab and put down the phone, wondering whether he would ever get himself sorted.

  His teeth were clamped together with a bit of the inside of his cheek between them. It was painful, but not half as painful as his conscience. He’d known Maguire was frightened of the man who’d phoned her in the night, but he’d told her patronisingly to go home and stop interfering in his case – well, words to that effect anyway. And now she’d had to face a murderous attack. Lucky she’d had her boyfriend with her. Otherwise … Well, otherwise didn’t bear thinking about. But why the hell wouldn’t she answer her phone?

  His own rang then. Expecting to hear about Collons from the custody sergeant, he simply said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Femur? It’s Trish Maguire here.’

  ‘Ah. I hear you’ve been in the wars, Ms Maguire,’ he said, not as helpfully as he’d intended. ‘I mean …’

  ‘It’s all right. I know what you mean. I was ringing to make sure you’d got the report. The officers promised to phone it through to you.’

  ‘I have. I understand that you saw your attacker’s face.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  When she’d given him much the same description he’d already had from the Southwark police, he said, with fake lightness, ‘So, it wasn’t Blair Collons, then?’ There was a pause. He could almost feel her nervousness down the line. ‘You do know about him, I take it, Ms Maguire?’

  ‘I do. But …’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything about him when you came in yesterday?’

  ‘He’s my client, Chief Inspector. I’m to represent him at his employment tribunal. I couldn’t talk about him.’

  ‘Even though he could have killed your friend?’

  ‘I didn’t think he had.’ Her voice sounded strained, but that could’ve been the effect of what she’d been through. ‘And last night’s performance pretty well proved it. Have you talked to Blair?’

  ‘We’re in the process of it now, but I needed to take a break. Get some air.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I can see that. Has he told you about the conspiracy yet?’

  ‘Conspiracy? What conspiracy?’

  ‘I think you’d better get it from him. I promised him I wouldn’t pass on anything he said to the police. That’s why I couldn’t tell you about him. And I can’t let him down, specially not now.’

  ‘Right.’ It was going to take Femur a long time to forgive her. ‘Before you go, had you ever seen your attacker before?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Would you know him again?’

  She was obviously thinking before she spoke. He approved of that.

  ‘Yes. I’m pretty sure I would.’

  ‘Right. Now, I gather you’re not at home. Where can I find you if I need to?’

  She gave him her boyfriend’s phone number then rang off. Femur sat at his desk, taking deep breaths and blowing them conscientiously out again, until he felt more in control. Soon he’d be able to go back to Collons and find out what Trish Maguire had been talking about.

  It took nearly half an hour for Collons to tell Femur what he thought had been happening at the council. When he’d finished writing up his notes, Femur frowned. ‘You really believe all this? That Martin Drakeshill, a secondhand-car dealer in Kingsford is also a drug importer, that he’s got a sergeant in the drugs squad on his payroll, that he’s infiltrated Kingsford Council for some nefarious purpose of his own and, afraid that you were about to blow his cover, engineered your dismissal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And not content with that, he sent someone to murder Kara Huggate, to silence her, too, after she’d started asking questions about the financing of some building work by the council?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you expect me to believe it too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Femur blinked. ‘I suppose I can just about see how there could be a connection between a drugs squad officer and a drugs importer, even that there are people within the council who are in the pay of the same drugs-importer, but I can’t see how they could be connected with the building work.’

  Collons looked as though he was about to cry again. His head wobbled. ‘Nor do I,’ he said at last, the words coming softly between his lips like a sigh. ‘I’m just sure that there is some kind of a connection.’

  ‘I see, sir.’ Femur slapped his notes into order and screwed the top on his felt-tip. He felt slightly less angry with Trish Maguire: if she’d been listening to this sort of stuff, she might well have hesitated to dump it on him and his officers. ‘Thank you for telling me all about it. I’m sorry you were unwell earlier, and I expect you’ll feel more comfortable back at home.’

  The little man leaned right across the table and grabbed Femur by the wrist. ‘But you will follow it up, won’t you?’

  ‘We’ll do what’s necessary. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. You have to get Drakeshill in and –’

  Fem
ur removed Blair’s hand and said, ‘I’m afraid it’s all I can promise at this stage. I’m grateful to you for telling me all about your theories, although it would have been helpful if you’d come forward earlier. But I’m satisfied that you’ve told us all you know now and so I’ll say goodbye for the moment.’

  ‘You mean, I’ve just got to go? With everyone knowing I’ve been here, talking to you?’

  ‘We can hardly keep you in custody, since you haven’t committed any crime.’

  Collons whispered something about ‘protective custody’.

  Femur got to his feet. ‘Don’t worry so much, Mr Collons. I’ve said I’ll look into it. You go on home, take a couple of aspirins and get some sleep. You’ll feel right as rain in no time.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Trish had never attended an identity parade before, and, in spite of what she’d said to Femur, she wasn’t at all sure that she would be able to recognise the face she’d seen only for a few seconds. But, in fact, it was easy. Walking along the glass wall with DC Lyalt in attendance, staring at ten snub-nosed, dark-haired white men in their early twenties, Trish knew him at once.

  ‘It’s number eight.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked DC Lyalt. ‘We need to be sure you’re right.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Trish crisply, wondering how much the constable knew about what had happened to her. She didn’t seem quite as sympathetic as Trish thought she should be. ‘It’s him. Number eight is the man who attacked me, ripped my leg with his screwdriver, and was rugger-tackled by George. I saw his face then, and again later when I tried to trip him as he ran out of my flat. I’d go into the witness box on it any day.’

  ‘You’ll have to.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Trish laughed at her expression. ‘Don’t look so worried, Constable Lyalt, I’m used to standing up in court. They won’t shake me.’

  ‘No,’ said DC Lyalt with a considering, half-admiring expression in her eyes. ‘I don’t suppose they will. OK, thanks, Ms Maguire.’

  ‘And there is one other thing,’ Trish said, staring at number eight’s arms. ‘I’ve only just remembered. He’s got a vile tattoo. On his right arm, I think, about a couple of inches above his wrist on the inside of his forearm. It’s a snake eating the guts of a woman, who’s been half disembowelled.’

  ‘Sure? If you’re not …’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Trish. ‘Get them all to roll up their sleeves. You’ll see.’

  After DC Lyalt had given the instruction through the intercom, the men behind the one-way glass rolled up their sleeves. Number eight was obviously reluctant and Trish shot a triumphant look at DC Lyalt, who nodded, but did not look away until the tattoo was revealed.

  ‘Well done, Ms Maguire. We’ll be OK now. Thanks.’

  She spoke into the intercom again and the officer on the other side of the glass told the men they could go. Something about the way number eight moved tweaked at Trish’s memory, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Then he bent to pick up something from the floor and she recognised the shape of his back. She turned to DC Lyalt.

  ‘D’you know? I think I might have seen him somewhere before.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  Trish couldn’t think why DC Lyalt should look worried by that piece of news until she realised that it might be evidence of mistaken identity.

  ‘Yes. But don’t worry: he’s definitely the man who attacked me in my flat.’

  DC Lyalt’s good-looking face relaxed.

  ‘But I think I may also have seen him at Drakeshill’s Used Cars in Kingsford. I couldn’t swear to that, but I’m reasonably confident it’s the same bloke.’

  ‘That is quite interesting in an anecdotal sort of way, but if you couldn’t swear to it, it’s not much use to us.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Trish said peaceably. ‘As a matter of interest?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did George pick out number eight, too? You won’t be breaking any confidences because I’ll ask him as soon as I get out of here.’

  DC Lyalt smiled, revealing a much livelier, more interesting character than the efficient, passionless officer she had seemed at first. ‘He did.’

  ‘Great. And does number eight have anything to do with Drakeshill?’

  At that question, DC Lyalt’s official expression came back over her face like some kind of security shutter.

  ‘Oh, go on. It can’t do any harm to tell me, if I’m not going into the witness box on the question of where I first saw him.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Lyalt, sounding much more like a friend than a police officer. ‘You could have seen him there because he does work for Drakeshill.’

  ‘Doing what exactly?’

  ‘Come on, Ms Maguire, you know I can’t tell you anything like that.’

  ‘Pity. Let me know if you need anything else.’

  ‘We will. But you’ve done OK, Ms Maguire. We’re all very grateful.’

  ‘What, just for identifying him?’ said Trish, in surprise.

  ‘No. I probably shouldn’t tell you this. Actually, I’m sure I shouldn’t. But since you were a friend of Kara Huggate’s, I’m going to. We hadn’t any evidence before you were attacked. Your quickness in getting hold of the screwdriver, even more than your identification, is the first real break we’ve had. You will keep that to yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Trish, taking in the full import of what DC Lyalt had said. ‘Then you do think he’s the one who killed Kara?’

  The other woman nodded, her face full of sympathy, as Trish leaned against the wall. The thought of what could have happened to her if George had not appeared just then made her head swim again. She covered her mouth with her hand as she remembered the instant when she’d understood that she was not going to be able to get away. Looking back through the glass at the place where her attacker had been standing, she said, ‘He is on remand, I take it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s got enough of a record to make sure of that. No hot-shot barrister is going to persuade any magistrate to take the risk of a man like that reoffending.’

  Trish’s guts lurched as she wondered which of her colleagues at the bar would have the task of defending her attacker – Kara’s killer. It might be someone like Jeremy Platen, whose skill at persuading juries that they couldn’t convict on the evidence before them was legendary. As far as Trish could remember, he had never acted for the defence in a murder trial and seen his client convicted. Never had the barrister’s perennial dilemma of giving their all to the defence of a man they loathed seemed so difficult. If Kara’s killer got off because of clever arguments or a gullible jury, Trish knew she would never be able to go home after dark without fear. And if it were a friend of hers who’d got him off, she would be faced with an insoluble dilemma of her own.

  Abruptly, and without another word to DC Lyalt, Trish went out to find George. He took one look at her face and put an arm round her. But he didn’t ask any questions. In the car, he put a Brahms concerto on the CD player so that she wouldn’t have to talk and drove smoothly back into London. As they reached Wandsworth, he turned down the volume, glanced at her and said, ‘Now that we know your attacker is safely in custody, would you like to go back to Southwark? Or would you prefer to stay on in Fulham for a bit?’

  Trish put her hand on his thigh. He took one hand off the steering wheel to lay it over hers.

  ‘Southwark, if you really don’t mind, George. The SOCO’s finished there, and I would like to get it cleared up.’

  ‘I thought so. And you do feel confined in my house, don’t you?’

  ‘A bit.’ Trish thought about the chintz and the antiques, and the smallness of the rooms, and the fact that everything in it belonged to George. But then she thought of being alone in Southwark again if the man she had just identified was not convicted and shuddered.

  ‘Don’t fret about it. I know you like wide open spaces in a way I don’t much. It doesn’t matter.’

 
; She let her head droop on to his shoulder for a second, full of all the usual conflicting emotions. He ruffled her hair casually. She got the feeling that he understood at least some of her muddle. Perhaps he even shared it.

  Later, when her flat was tidy again and all the bloody feathers had been collected and bagged up for the binmen, George volunteered to get some food to restock the almost empty fridge.

  ‘Oh, I’ll come with you,’ Trish said at once. ‘There’s no need for you to do my shopping. You’ve done so much already.’

  ‘Rest your weary legs, my love,’ he said, misquoting one of his favourite poems. She only just recognised it as Auden’s ‘Lullaby’. ‘I won’t be long.’

  When he’d left her alone in the flat, it struck her that he was a remarkably generous man. She remembered telling him once that he was like Kara and she wondered whether, like Kara, he had a talent for seeing through people’s masks of contentment to the unacknowledged sadness they carried around with them. The idea was startling enough to make her think again about their argument and face the possibility that the icy black knot in the centre of her memories of her father might not be fury after all, but something only Kara and George had recognised for what it was.

  After a while, she realised she was going to have to do something about it. She reached for the phone and then, remembering she had no idea of his number, bent down to the bottom drawer of her desk for one of the unopened letters.

  ‘Hello?’ she said tentatively, when she heard his voice. ‘Is that Paddy Maguire?’

  ‘It is. Is it you, Trish?’ His voice was so eager that she felt squeezed with shame.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to ring back.’

  ‘That’s fine, my dear. And how are you?’

  ‘Fine. Fine. And you?’

  ‘All the better for hearing your voice. You’re not too busy now?’

  ‘Well, no, not just at the moment,’ she said, bridling a little at the mischievous laughter in his voice. It sounded much more richly Trish than she remembered.

  ‘I shouldn’t be teasing you now, should I? Although you used to like being teased in the old days.’