by Jack Probyn
‘Unless…’ Garrison began. ‘I might be able to work something out.’
‘Go on,’ Isaac said eagerly.
‘I can’t make any promises but it’ll put you in good stead.’
‘What is it?’
‘Tell me the name of the person that Danny Cipriano was talking to. Who’s the reporter?’
Isaac didn’t even hesitate; as if he were answering a quick-fire round in a game show.
‘Tanya Smile. BBC News woman. She’s the reporter that met with Danny.’
Interesting.
‘And who’s the contact that put her in touch with him?’
‘Danika. DC Danika Oblak. Surrey Police. She’s the only one who knew about Danny’s location who could have leaked it.’
At that point, the coffee-shop owner approached them and placed a metallic tray with a receipt on it on the table. The conversation had reached its conclusion, and Phil was aware of that. Garrison enjoyed not having to signal to him. After years of experience, he was finally getting the hang of things.
‘Here you are, boys.’
Garrison looked at it, then at Isaac.
‘You didn’t even pay?’
‘I… I…’
Garrison lifted himself out of his chair. He had everything he needed. And more.
‘Thanks for the coffee, Isaac. I’m glad we had this chat. Oh, and if you want my advice, don’t do anything stupid. Remember what I said. We know where you are, and where those closest to you are as well. Either myself or one of my guys will be in touch.’
CHAPTER 31
MEMORY
Richard Maddison lived in a small terraced house, as tall as it was wide and constructed mainly of brick that was beginning to fall apart. Can’t be a very good builder if he can’t fix his own house, Drew thought as he approached the front door. The door was constructed from wood, and there was a thin gap that ran along the top and bottom, too small to fit in the frame. As he stood in front of it, Drew felt a draft flutter around his feet.
To his right was a small bay window. The curtains were drawn and there was an old ashtray resting against the windowsill. Either side of Richard Maddison’s house was the exact same building, built in the exact same style – except his neighbours looked as though they exercised better care of their properties than he did.
By Drew’s foot was a plant pot. He bent down and tilted it to the side, hoping Richard wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave a spare key underneath it.
He was right. It was empty, save for a few disturbed woodlice scurrying back towards the darkness.
Drew stretched his legs and let the plant pot fall back into place. It swayed from side to side and then began to spin. Eventually, it stopped. It wasn’t in the exact same position, but it would do.
Slinging the backpack off his shoulder, Drew unzipped the top of the bag and plunged his hand in. There, tucked away in a small compartment, he found his lock-picking tools. Before picking the lock, he did a small recce of the neighbours and the street, made sure he wasn’t being watched or spied on by anyone, and then set to work.
Within seconds, he was in. The door swung open and Drew flung his hand out to stop it from knocking into the adjacent wall. Once inside, he checked his watch – 3:57 p.m. There was no knowing when Richard would be back, but he knew it could be soon. He gave himself three minutes to get in and out.
Without wasting any more time, Drew headed upstairs and moved straight for the second door on the right – the bedroom. The room was small and cramped. The bed was on the right-hand side, so close to the door that he almost bumped his knee on it as he entered. To his left was a desk with a laptop on it. Clothes hung from the wardrobe door, and there was a fan standing beneath the window in front of him.
Drew approached the wardrobe, reaching inside his backpack for the piece of cement. The clothes hanging from the wardrobe looked fresh, clean, like they were part of an outfit Richard had already prepared to change into when he got home. Unhelpful. Drew needed dirty clothes – clothes Richard would have worn on the night Danny died.
Drew opened the wardrobe and found a washing basket inside.
‘Perfect,’ he whispered.
Crouching, Drew placed the bagged cement on the floor and stamped on it, crushing it into smaller fragments and dust. Ten stamps later, he opened the evidence bag, dug his finger in, swept up some of the dust and placed it on a T-shirt that was at the top of the pile. Within seconds, that part of his operation was done. He sealed the bag shut, closed the wardrobe and moved towards Richard’s laptop. Keeping the gloves on, Drew opened the lid. The screen illuminated, a stock image of a mountain behind a lake appearing in front of him.
Drew hit enter and, to his surprise, the laptop unlocked and took him to Richard’s desktop. He reached inside his pocket and inserted the USB memory stick. On it were thousands of images of child pornography he’d stolen from the online archives back at the station. Deeply rooted in the hardware of the device was a piece of software that encrypted the source of the files so that it was imperceptible to computer forensics, untraceable. Signs of his involvement were non-existent, and now it was Richard’s problem.
Not only would they arrest him for the murder of Danny Cipriano, but they’d also send him down for being a prolific paedophile.
CHAPTER 32
OVERRULED
Liam massaged his hands anxiously. The fallout from the BBC News report was immense. And it hadn’t taken long for the press to come thrashing at the door, howling for answers and tearing anything he said to shreds – like the wolves they were. To combat the shitstorm, Liam decided to host a press conference. It was moments from being underway, and nearly all the city’s news outlets had gathered in the largest conference room Bow Green had to offer. The room heaved with bodies: news reporters, people holding cameras, people holding microphones on the end of long sticks, and also an army of civilian support staff who were manning the perimeter of the room, filtering everyone into the space in an organised and civilised manner.
As he sat there, waiting for the conference to begin, Liam hoped that Drew and Garrison had finished what they were doing. It would make him look comfortable in the eyes of The Cabal if he could end the conference with news of an arrest. That would surely give him some of the extra credibility he’d been campaigning for. Whether The Cabal was watching or not, he didn’t know, but given the pressure he was being put under, it seemed likely.
Four spotlights switched on and blinded him. Assistant Commissioner Richard Candy, the man who Liam had aspired to become for so long, arrived from a door on the right and sat beside Liam. He was dressed in his uniform, with his police cap under his arm. His epaulettes shone in the artificial light, and he carried an air of authority about him. partly due to his rank, partly due to his very demeanour. The man was easy-going when he wanted to be, but his temperament often had the tendency to snap, Liam had learnt. The hard way.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Candy started. ‘Thank you for coming here this afternoon. Your attendance is greatly appreciated. As I’m sure you’re aware, we are all here regarding the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of Danny Cipriano. His death is tragic, and we are doing everything in our power to resolve the case and find the person or persons responsible as soon as possible.’
Candy stopped speaking suddenly, and Liam took that as his cue to begin.
He cleared his throat. ‘In the very early hours of the morning of the twenty-fifth, Danny Cipriano was murdered at the London Olympic Stadium. His body was filled with cement before he was later buried in it. The current construction work that is taking place on the site has ground to a halt while our investigations continue. In this short space of time, we are pursuing several lines of enquiry, and we are hopeful of an arrest imminently. For reasons of confidentiality I cannot disclose any information pertaining to the suspects in this ongoing investigation.’
He paused to clear his throat again. ‘While we are conducting our investigations, we would also like to
point out that, if anyone does have any information regarding this incident, please call Crimestoppers on their usual number. I have been in touch with them and they are offering a reward of five thousand pounds in exchange for accurate and relevant information.’
The room illuminated with flashes and furore. Hunger stepped in the way and hands rose and waved at him, asking a torrent of questions. Liam craned his neck at the crowd and then immediately wished he hadn’t. In the distance, shuffling past the reporters, advancing towards him and the panel, was Lord Penrose and his associate.
Oliver stopped and glared at Liam, his arms folded across his chest. Liam’s eyes snapped left and right, trying to focus on the reporters who were eagerly awaiting his approval. But he couldn’t focus, not with the lord staring him down like that, shooting bullets at him with his eyes.
For a moment, Liam searched for Tanya, hoping that she’d be there; she had the ability to distract him at a single glance. He found her, sitting down with her hand resting on a notepad on her knee.
Just as he opened his mouth to select her – despite what she’d done in the past few hours – Assistant Commissioner Candy held his hand in the air and concluded the interview. ‘Unfortunately, we won’t be able to take questions right now. Please, if you have any information regarding this incident then do get in touch with Crimestoppers.’
The assistant commissioner stepped out of his chair and glided out of the room to Liam’s right. Meanwhile, Penrose turned his back on Liam and exited the way he’d come, leaving Liam to deal with the fallout. After the cameras’ lights were switched off, the reporters and journalists hurried towards him, holding microphones under his chin.
‘No questions please!’ he yelled as he hurried after the assistant commissioner. ‘We have nothing further to add, guys – come on.’
He waded his way through the barrage of people and breathed a heavy sigh of relief as soon as he slipped through the door and into the corridor. His brief moment of respite didn’t last long; what he saw in front of him increased his heart rate tenfold.
Oliver and Candy. Talking quietly.
Oliver was the first to notice Liam, then Candy, who was holding his police cap under his armpit and letting his free arm dangle by his side. At the sight of him, Oliver hurried over.
‘I thought we told you to keep this out of the media. We’re already dealing with the leak earlier. We don’t need more information getting out about this.’
‘With all due respect, sir,’ Liam replied, ‘this is an active operation. We can’t just pick and choose who we tell when it suits us. Or rather, when it suits you. Have you ever worked in the police service, sir?’
Oliver remained tight-lipped.
‘Then perhaps you’ll appreciate that you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Chief Inspector!’ AC Candy bellowed, his voice filling the hallway. ‘How dare you speak to Lord Penrose like that.’
Candy turned to Penrose. ‘Oliver, please forgive my colleague. As I’m sure you can imagine, he’s feeling a little pressured right now. Not only is there pressure coming externally, but also internally – from me.’
Candy shot Liam a final glare.
‘It’s understandable but inexcusable. I hope I’ve made myself very clear, Inspector.’ Oliver’s expression was stern. His brows were furrowed, revealing thick, deep lines on his forehead.
Reluctantly, Liam dipped his head. He knew when to pick his battles, and this one wasn’t worth the aggro. ‘Understood, sir.’
‘This isn’t over yet. I want more bodies on the investigation working to solve this as quickly as possible,’ Oliver retorted.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ AC Candy said.
‘Good. Now, DCI Greene, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to get back to, as I’m sure you do too. And, if you don’t mind, I need to have a further word with your boss.’
CHAPTER 33
WE
One name. That was all it took to strike fear into Jake’s heart. He had avoided talking about it, thinking about it, for so long, but now things were the way they were, there was no hiding from it. And now, while he was in the office alone – Liam, Drew and Garrison had all disappeared without mention or forethought – was the best time to do it.
To face his fear. To face an old enemy.
DS Elliot Bridger.
If there was anyone who would know anything about what had happened to Danny and would be able to provide any evidence against Liam, Drew and Garrison, it would be him. Ever since the beginning, way back when Jake had started out at Surrey Police – briefly – the man had proven that he knew all the intricate little details when it came to The Cabal and The Crimsons. During their final heist in Guildford, on Jake’s first day, Bridger had been the bent cop lurking in the background, trying to help them get out of the country. Their relationship with one another had been up and down like a cruise liner bobbing on the surface of the Channel.
They’d agreed to meet at Farnham Golf Club, West Surrey, over an hour and a half away from Bow Green. In the car park, he recognised Bridger’s Jaguar – number plated: BR1D G3R – and parked beside it. As he killed the engine, Jake scanned the surrounding area. Nobody had taken it upon themselves to follow him; nor were there any suspicious silhouettes lurking in the background. Just because Liam, Drew and Garrison were all preoccupied didn’t mean they hadn’t sent anyone after him.
Jake entered the brick reception building where he was greeted by a small gift shop. Luminous shirts and jumpers glared at him, boasting fifty per cent off for a limited time only, and to his left was a rack of golf clubs. He’d never been a fan of the game, but he did like the way a club felt to the touch. Light at one end, heavy at the other end. Great for breaking into things and smashing a man’s skull. If the time ever came.
At the back of the building was the reception desk, and Jake recognised the man behind it from their previous encounter a few years earlier, when he and Bridger had been trying to locate a set of keys that unlocked a deadly spiked collar device. The owner, James, had been useless then and Jake wondered whether he was about to find out if lightning ever struck twice.
‘Afternoon, sir,’ James said as Jake approached him.
‘Afternoon.’
The man pointed to a door that led into a restaurant and bar area.
‘He’s waiting for you,’ James said.
‘Excuse me?’ Jake replied, more out of reflex than anything else.
‘He’s waiting for you. Our mutual friend.’
Point proven. Lightning, twice? Never.
Jake creased his brow but said nothing before walking away and disappearing round the corner. The inside of the restaurant was clean and empty, save for one man sitting at a table with a glass of water in his hand. There were twenty circular tables, of varying sizes and widths, dotted around the restaurant, glasses overturned, napkins missing. To the right of the space was a bar, beads of condensation abseiling down the neck of the taps. Music played in the background. Soft jazz.
Bridger looked up, then lifted his glass, beckoning Jake to join him.
‘Have you got your finger in this little pie?’ Jake asked, pulling a chair from the table.
‘James is an old friend of mine.’ Bridger nodded over to the bar. Jake turned and saw the owner was now there, cleaning a beer glass with a towel.
‘It didn’t seem that way when we were here last? From what I remember, he told us one thing and you believed him. You couldn’t get us out of here fast enough.’
‘That was the old me. I needed a favour and he owed me one. He was just doing what I told him.’
‘And is this another favour he owes you?’
‘This is where I spend a lot of my time now. For the membership prices he’s charging, it’s probably fair to say he does.’
Jake looked around the restaurant. The tables and chairs were made from a dark, glossy oak that reflected the light from the mini chandeliers overhead. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran al
ong the length of the building, showcasing the greens of the golf course beyond. The building screamed luxury, and bled wealth and arrogance.
Sitting there, Jake noticed how desolate and quiet it was.
‘Why do I feel like I’m in a nineties gangster movie, waiting for a couple of thugs with nothing but their bare fists and a couple of knuckledusters to jump out of the shadows and beat me until I shit myself?’
‘Because you have an overactive imagination. One of your flaws and strengths. But there’s nobody else here. Just us. I thought this would be a good place to meet you because nobody else knows about it. Nobody would think to look here.’
‘Our little secret,’ Jake said, noticing the tone of their conversation was already more docile and calmer than their previous encounters had been. There was no animosity between them now, nothing. Just two coppers. One trying to right the wrongs in the world, the other trying to wrong the rights.
‘I hear you decided to get out early – while you still could?’
Bridger took a sip of his drink and slid the empty glass across to the centre of the table. ‘I got out as soon as I realised it was all fucked. I knew they were never going to let Danny and Michael live. So I got out before it happened. I’m done with it all. Clean slate.’
‘How’s that working for you?’
‘So far so good. But, before you ask, I had nothing to do with Danny Cipriano’s death, you know that, right?’
From the first time they’d met, Jake had never taken anything Elliot Bridger said to be gospel. There was always some layer of deceit, always something that he was declaring. Ninety per cent, missing ten per cent. But, in that moment, that all changed.
‘I believe you. But I know who did.’
‘Oh?’
Jake sighed. The dynamic of their relationship had changed in the past few months. During the Stratford killings, and before Danny and Michael Cipriano had been let out of remand and entered into the witness protection scheme, Bridger had given him one single piece of advice, which had stayed with him for a long time. Get out. That was it. Stay out of The Cabal’s way and stop messing with things he didn’t understand. And, for that, Jake admired him, trusted him even. But now he was beginning to understand the things he hadn’t before, it was time to heed that advice.
