I Know You (DI Emma Locke)

by Louise Mullins

  ‘Give that back to me, you mad bitch!’ She reaches out to grab the necklace, but I snap it away from her outstretched hand and she trips over my foot, almost landing hard on the shiny floor but stopping herself by pushing over a shelving unit half-filled with exquisitely decorated boxes of loose tea, clinging to the edge of it with slender fingers.

  I never intended to upset her, but she needs to know that whatever problems Steven had with rival gangs could happen to her own son and daughter, to any of them, because it already has.

  ‘Tyrell was stabbed too, wasn’t he?’

  She narrows her eyes and her jaw tightens as I open the clasp of the locket and stare down into the eyes of her eldest son, four years deceased, murdered aged eighteen in the park while he was serving drugs to two seventeen-year-olds beneath the slide. He hadn’t realised they belonged to a rival gang and were possibly looking to screw him over, steal his batch.

  She snatches the necklace from me and shoves everyone aside to reach the door.

  On the street I find her, shaking, looking up at the clear blue sky as if in silent prayer. I stand beside her, unmoving and wait for her to explain but she doesn’t. Says instead, ‘He bought me that chain.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Probably with drug money.’ She doesn’t expand. Just looks me straight in the eyes and says, ‘Don’t come near me again or I’ll do you for harassment. And you stay away from my kids.’

  I don’t have time to tell her that Jerome came to me, to my house, fell into my arms sobbing, and told me to be careful, that the word on the street that floated through his ears suggested the individual responsible for Steven’s murder targeted the wrong boy. I did not seek him out. If he hadn’t have felt compelled to divulge the monstrous secret he’d been keeping, I’d still be in the dark. I’m grateful to him. But I still can’t stand his ignorant mother.

  Carmen turns back to the shop. I move in the opposite direction. And within fifteen minutes I’m back inside the salon, stood behind a stool, facing my reflection in the half-length mirror, swiping hair from the seat and onto the floor to brush away, wishing I had someone to lean on, so I didn’t have to clean up the mess left in the wake of my inaction, alone. Because on some level, I knew my son’s life would end this way. Steven’s fate was sealed. Like father, like son. But I deluded myself into thinking his wouldn’t become a repeat of Dejuan’s story. Though it’s so much worse because he’s not imprisoned. I’m never going to see him again. And the last words we exchanged were a list of instructions and a grunt.

  It’s not until the sky darkens and I’m lying prone on my mattress willing sleep to pay me a visit do I remember Jerome had told me that his mother, three months ago, had experienced what is commonly known as the MS hug: an almost annual relapse that leaves her torso in such utter agony and stiffness, her mobility so out of whack, she can barely function. Jerome was helping his mother to shower, eat, and dress the night Steven was killed. Carmen appears to have recovered fast. The last time she experienced a relapse she had been wiped out for months.

  Had Jerome lied to me about the severity of his mother’s condition? And if he had, why?

  DS MAGUIRE

  Croydon, London

  The phone call comes in at 5.25 p.m. I was hoping to leave at exactly six o’clock and head straight home for a long soak in a bath full of bubbles with a glass of wine and end the evening with a good book curled up in front of the television, hitting bed early. Though it’s doubtful my husband and children would allow me the reprieve, it’s nice to dream. Instead I’m squeezing out of a parking space and steering away from the forecourt of the station towards a murder scene.

  The entrance of the high-rise is flooded with curious members of the public. Blue and white tape is cordoning off a tree where a white tent has been erected over the blanket-covered body of a female who’s been shot dead in what witnesses describe as a drive-by. A rare event in this neighbourhood.

  I walk towards the forensics team donned in white all-in-ones and with coverlets over their shoes, wearing masks and nitrile gloves. The team is comprised of crime scene investigators, a forensic scientist, and a blood splatter analyst who are collecting trace evidence from her clothing fibres and litter from the concrete next to the victim as well as videotaping and photographing the scene. I sweep the area for anyone overly emotional or appearing as though they’re lacking feelings, making a mental note to speak to a young woman whose daughter is weeping quietly in her arms. I can’t imagine the horror that’s going through her young mind and hope she didn’t see anything.

  To the right of the tent stands a paramedic. The rest of the crew are speaking to two armed police officers in front of the ambulance. I overhear the responders discussing their hasty assumption for the crime having been politically motivated. ‘When we got the call, we thought we were going to attend another terrorist attack. We got suited and booted in less than a minute. Record timing though I’m relieved we didn’t need our kit this time.’

  After the underground slashings by proponents of ISIS, rioting and looting, and maniacal van drivers ploughing into pedestrians of recent years, everyone in Croydon lives on a knife-edge of uncertainty. It’s brought the communities previously separated by cultural dynamics closer to one another, caused members of the public to become more trusting and supportive of the police whose only aim is to make the streets of London safer for everyone to live on, and has closed the gap on racist propaganda. Unlike Luton, where many of the locals born in the area are still struggling to separate patriotism from extremism.

  A couple of tenacious journalists are already gathering information from members of the public who I presume haven’t yet spoken to the police. Thankfully one of the uniformed officers is privy to the reporters trying to chance a good photograph of the spot where the female victim had collapsed as the bullets hit her young body. Three to the torso, one to the head and two to the face, I’ve ascertained from overheard snippets of conversation between the paramedics and my fellow cops.

  Rawlings alerted me to the incident. Told me to meet Pierce here. But as I survey the area, I can’t see him until he appears abruptly in front of me. ‘Ballistics are on their way. The Home Office pathologist got here ten minutes ago.’

  I glance towards the man who will be transporting the body to the county medical lab to conduct the post-mortem once any trace evidence has been collected for analysis. The latter seems only to include the bullets lodged in her flesh, a cigarette butt, and a piece of chewing gum retrieved from the ground in case they contain particles of DNA from her assailant.

  ‘Any idea who the female victim is?’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not going to like it,’ says Pierce.

  Pierce nods to an officer who waves me over and in his gloved hand he raises a small see-through snap bag containing a purse and a debit card used to identify the girl whose initialled name is embossed over the plastic.

  N. A. Campbell.

  ‘Natalie Ariana Campbell,’ says Pierce.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Looks like she was right about someone wanting her gone if they discovered she’d spoken to us, huh?’ says Pierce.

  ‘Alright, alright, no need to state the obvious.’ I gasp in a lungful of air before reminding him how fucked we both are through my teeth in a lowered voice. ‘We didn’t offer her protection, yet we’ve got her recorded phone call and videoed interview suggesting she was at serious risk of harm by coming to the station and speaking to us. You know what this means? Internal investigation, suspension, possibly the loss of our jobs.’

  ‘We did everything by the book, we got the DI’s permission to advertise her arrest. We gave her the opportunity to tell us the truth, and we—’

  ‘Didn’t follow up after she walked out of court.’

  ‘Not mandatory. We took every step to ensure her safety when she was in custody. We’re not responsible for her wellbeing when she leaves our care.’

  I stomp over to the pathologist to get the
details of her murder while Pierce begins interviewing witnesses.

  Over an hour and a half later, stood in the entrance of the high-rise, feeling a chill in the breeze, I go over the two things I’ve learned: the shooter was a ‘light-skinned man’, possibly ‘blond’, though that could have been the streetlight reflecting off his head and the car he drove here in was a black Volkswagen Golf. Possibly with an identical number plate to the one seen vacating the scene less than a minute after Steven was stabbed to death. If the vehicle that kerbed the pavement and got photographed for speeding is a clone of the car dumped on the grass outside Mr Mahajan’s multi-storey, then it’s safe to say the driver might be the same one who exited in haste after Steven’s murder. Though we can’t assume he stabbed him. Being in the same place and driving like an idiot doesn’t make you a killer. I think we learned that the hard way regarding Natalie.

  I shiver. ‘Run an ANPR check for the registration and call Rawlings so he can get us a warrant to sift through the security footage.’ I point up at the bracketed camera angled on the roadside.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To notify Carmen, her mother. It’s the least I can do.’ I hurry to the car and open the door.

  I should take someone with me in case anyone involved in the crime sees me, but I don’t. I jump in, slam the door, snap on my seatbelt, turn the engine, and reverse onto the street before Pierce has time to confront and challenge me.

  It’s my fault Natalie is dead. I listened to the girl but didn’t fully absorb her words. Maybe she wasn’t being difficult during her interview. Maybe she was scared, and I misinterpreted it as defensiveness. But I was right about one thing. She lied to us about the man responsible and his car. And I don’t know why – when she was so determined to talk to us – she wasn’t completely honest when she had our undivided notice and unwavering support. Brave for coming forward, stupid for concealing the offender’s identity.

  In my rear-view mirror the tower block is a large black oblong crayon against a muted violet and blush pink skyline. The beam from my headlights hit the steel gates of a playground entrance as I leave the estate behind.

  Natalie’s older brother, Tyrell, was stabbed twelve times in another part of south-east London four years ago. His killer is yet to be caught. It could be a coincidence, but I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that the two teenagers’ deaths are somehow related.

  SINEAD

  Newport, Wales

  I open the door and step outside. The morning sun blinks through a gathering of cotton wool clouds as I jog round the side of the house and flip the lid of the waste bin over to drop in a half-full bag of rubbish.

  Tulip walks across the gravel lane heading for his car twenty yards in front of me, chin raised to the sky carrying two guitars, a chain of dog leads, several torches, and a steering wheel.

  I enter the house, close the door behind me, and hurry into the living room to watch him open the boot where a mattress is folded in half, covered with a blanket and two pillows. ‘Weirdo.’ I snap the blind back in place and jump in fright at the sound of something loud and heavy hitting the patio. I run to the back of the house and peek through the French windows, catching a cat scurrying away from the BBQ that’s been knocked onto its side. ‘Stupid bloody animal.’

  When the kettle is boiled, I pour myself a strong coffee and neck it while stood at the kitchen counter, willing my limbs to stop shaking at each crack and ping of the cooling water pipes below my feet and above my head. The exposed floorboards heighten every sound the house makes as it breathes.

  Upstairs, I apply my makeup and brush my hair, convinced that if I leave the house without beautifying myself everyone at the school gates will notice the inner turmoil I’m trying desperately to supress.

  I hear the wind lift the letterbox, or maybe the postman. A leaflet slap as it falls against the mat, the chugging sound of what I assume are feet vacating the boundary of my property.

  I’m about to head downstairs when I cross the hallway from the bathroom to my bedroom to put on my trainers, and something green and conspicuous catches my sight through the mottled glass of the front door directly below me at the foot of the stairs.

  I tread softly towards the staircase. The distinct smell of petrol greets me. And I recognise instantly what the green item I’d seen being carried away from the door was. A fuel canister.

  I freeze.

  My throat closes. My breath thickens. My skin prickles.

  It’s happening again.

  ‘Please… no?’ I gurgle through an impossibly tight chest, my pulse thudding in my ears.

  I will myself to be brave. ‘You’ve… faced… worse things,’ I tell myself, my voice high and clipped.

  I eventually get my bearings. My numb limbs unlock, muscles softening. I stumble a few paces then charge downstairs, tug open the front door, and run down the path, hitting the pavement in just my socks before my adrenaline decreases and I lose my nerve.

  I do a three-sixty then pelt along the pavement, turn, circle the cul-de-sac, and glance quickly at the parked cars wondering if anyone is hiding between them waiting for the opportunity to pounce. Then a snapping branch, the crushed spine of a bramble forces me to spin and face the thicket of fir trees lining the dual carriageway several metres behind me. If he went through there and walked along the metre-wide gap, he could easily slip back through into the next road and scarper before I’ve even made it towards the hedgerows.

  The unlit petrol is meant as a warning: this is what I could do, light it and watch your house go up in smoke, your body burn to cinders in the flames.

  If there could have been any doubt in my mind before that the car incident was deliberate, there is none now. The dog shit could have been unrelated. But this? No. The person making my life hell has a personal vendetta against me. And that’s exactly what I’ll tell the police.

  I run back to the house, the front door left open in my haste to find the individual responsible. I dart a look around the side of the property to check no one is hiding there before walking slowly inside. ‘Hello?’

  The quiet rumble of the eco-friendly washing machine is the only sound to greet me. I close the door behind me, creep steadily into the living room, and check behind the door, between the sofas. I back into the kitchen and glance the length of it, determining there’s no one in there. I search the cupboard under the stairs. I tip-toe upstairs, jump from my own shadow in the bathroom, my reflection in the mirror unfamiliar: bags under my eyes, skin dry, hair lank. The strain of the past few days evident on my withdrawn features. I look away quickly. I amble over piles of toys and scattered clothes on the floor of Brandon’s room. I get on my hands and knees and remove the boxes of games and dress up dolls from under Mai’s bed. The floorboards creek below my feet as I hesitate to enter my bedroom, the last room, the only one in the house I haven’t searched.

  I close the door behind me, only then remembering my mobile phone isn’t where I usually leave it on top of the dresser, but downstairs instead in my coat pocket, hung on the back of the hallway cupboard door. The room is cloaked in darkness, the blinds still taut across the windows since I rose this morning, exhausted from lack of sleep and busy attempting to navigate the children into their uniforms, to the kitchen to eat breakfast, and into the car for the six-mile long school run. The bed still unmade. I’m breathing fast, my heart pounding in my ears. Skin warm and tingling.

  I check behind the elaborately designed velveteen chair in the corner though from the doorway I could tell there was no one crouched behind it. Aeron bought it when we began decorating the room in an Edwardian theme. The ceiling rose, coving, and door handles match. His mum gave us the antique lamps situated centrally on the units at either side of our bed. I cringe at how appreciative I had to act to keep the old witch satisfied I wasn’t going to sell them on eBay to make a few quid. ‘My father inherited them from his mother,’ she said with a sickly-sweet smile, her permanently startled eyes and downtu
rned lips making her look slightly demented as she spoke. Only I knew her kind, selfless act was as false as the diamond studs in her ears. Her husband told me he’d bought the nine-carat gold plated silver Swarovski crystal earrings in Jeffries. ‘They look just like the real deal, huh?’ he said. ‘Like cut diamonds.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Not.

  I look under the bed, stand upright, turn, and feel a heavy thud against the back of my head. I reach back to discover what I’ve knocked off the dresser and feel a brush of skin against the back of my hand. Something whooshes through the air and the pain stuns me. The sound of something hard hitting bone – my skull – sends me giddy. Another thump, a split shape of agony flutters in front of my eyes, and my knees buckle. A crack and my sight fuzzes to nothing as I fall face-first onto the hardwood floor.

  DI LOCKE

  Newport, Wales

  Aeron’s frantic phone call to the emergency response team while I was on my way to visit Tulip, accompanied by DS Jones, was transferred from uniform to us as we were already on our way to the cul-de-sac when the call-out came through via DCI Evans.

  Sinead’s attacker bolted from the house, leaving the front door open. It was swaying in the wind when her next-door neighbour, Gillian, called the police thinking there’d been a break-in. She didn’t enter to investigate, frightened the burglar might still be in there. Gillian had no idea Sinead was lying on the floor of her bedroom, assumed she wasn’t in because Sinead had parked Aeron’s car at the other end of the road which she was using to do the school-run while Aeron taxied to the works vehicle collection station. Uniform spotted Aeron’s car as they tried to find a space to pull over to reach the house. It was therefore logged as non-urgent, although by this time he was already on his way home having received a phone call from the school to inform him the children were still waiting to be collected at 3.40.

  I swerve my unmarked car to a stop, blocking the lane leading to the front of the property and surveying the perimeter before entering the house after Jones in case Sinead’s attacker is still roaming the area, pleased with the response to his crime.