10

The duty inspector had rounded up CID from all over the nick, and the drinks machine shuddered loudly as it dispensed Coke and Red Bull. Ash had celebrated the news by bringing the biscuit tin from the office to the canteen, and everyone was digging in, the tin rapidly emptying.

‘I’m a rebel, me!’ he said in a fake northern accent. ‘Can’t wait to see the DI’s face in the morning when all the biscuits have gone. Do you think she’ll put a crime report on?’

An officer in the act of stuffing two biscuits in his mouth at the same time said, ‘You’re fine, mate. No witnesses.’

The duty inspector walked briskly into the canteen and sat at one of the tables.

‘When you’re ready?’

They gathered round, mostly standing. She handed out the hastily printed briefing sheets.

‘With the station grapevine fully operational, I expect most of you will already know what this is about . . .’

Lizzie was staring at the briefing. At the top was a custody image of a white male: round head, short cropped hair, QPR shirt. It was the most recent image, taken the last time he’d been nicked. She looked down the page and saw the name of the victim. She pulled out a chair and sat down. Ash was looking in her direction, but she avoided him, gazing steadfastly at the briefing sheet. Inspector Redwood was still talking.

‘Chummy is believed to have murdered his partner. When I say “believed”, I mean he is the suspect. There’s no doubt she’s dead, unfortunately.’

There was a brief silence, punctuated by a muttered ‘Bastard.’

The inspector resumed. ‘OK, troops, this is a live incident – the suspect is at large and there’s a child missing. I’ve been briefed by Homicide, but if you’ve got any queries you can call them on their mobile – and I suggest you do. Everything done properly, please. This is a murder investigation. Those briefing sheets are numbered and they don’t go out of this room – I want them all back at the end of our little chat.’

Ash said, ‘Sorry to ask, ma’am, but it may be handy if we come across him . . .’

The inspector looked up. ‘I hope this isn’t one of your bloody jokes, Ash.’

‘It isn’t a joke, ma’am. Got to think of our safety. How did he kill her?’

‘My apologies. Multiple stab wounds. We haven’t recovered the knife. Nobody should try to arrest him without back-up.’

Ash and Lizzie were tasked with notifying the next of kin. Lizzie grabbed some car keys and they met up in the office to get their kit. That phrase that had come to Lizzie in the court kept returning. Die then. She tried to tune it out. She put on her covert harness that held her radio, baton, gas and handcuffs, and pulled her jacket over the top.

Ash said, ‘Are you going to be all right?’

She looked at him. He was smiling at her. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’

‘Why don’t you stay in the office? I’m sure you can swap with someone.’

‘No, it’s all right. Really.’

She checked in her grab bag that she had blank statements and evidence bags and they went down to the yard. Lizzie flicked the lock to identify the car and a shabby old Ford flashed its lights.

‘You don’t want to drive?’ she said.

Ash raised his eyebrows. ‘Drive for the job? Me? Never. They don’t pay you any more for it and there’s all sorts of shit that can go wrong.’

She pulled back the seat, adjusted the mirrors. She’d delivered a few death messages in her short service, but this one held a special dread. Her heart was beating, her hands were cold. How was she going to get through telling Georgina’s mother that her daughter had been murdered and that her granddaughter was missing? She turned the engine on. It was like everything the job threw at you: you just had to do it.

Ash said, ‘You not checking the vehicle?’

‘If there’s something wrong with it, I don’t want to bloody know. We’ll never find another one.’

‘There you are,’ said Ash, belting up, ‘offering yourself up to a world of pain. If something’s wrong with it and there’s an accident, it will be on you.’

Feeling numb, Lizzie turned the car and swung out through the gates. She accelerated towards the lights and Ash put his hand on the dashboard.

‘Are you positive you’re OK to deal with this? You seem in a bit of a state, to be honest.’

‘Bloody hell. How many times are you going to ask me?’

‘Well, OK then, but slow down at least. You did everything you could for Georgina. The death message isn’t an emergency. That’s been and gone.’

He produced a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and opened it out. ‘Want to know the intel on the address?’

‘Yes, go ahead.’

‘Go ahead – listen to you. Such a cop. You bloody love it. How could you ever think you were going to resign?’

‘Whatever. Fuck, Ash. What have we got?’

‘Nothing too bad. Mum’s boyfriend, Fergal, was a bit of a Billy Burglar but he’s not been busy for a few years, at least not as far as we know. Works for the council now, on the bins.’

‘And Mum?’

‘Julie Teel. Lots of shoplifting, one fraud. No convictions for violence. Used to be on the juice big-time. Heroin. Seems to be off it now. Nothing recent.’

Built in the 1970s on a site created by German bombs, the Deakin Estate wouldn’t have looked out of place as the set of a Kubrick movie: high-rise blocks, covered walkways, upturned orbs of white light. It was notorious among the local police as a place that could have done with another direct hit. The council had tried to demolish it in the 1980s and start again, but the residents had managed to get it Grade I listed. Now – spruced up with lottery money – it was here to stay, and, sure enough, could be found on property websites tempting the adventurous and cash-strapped as iconic, unusual, exciting. One of the entrances had a group of youths in hoodies hanging out. They clocked the two cops and drifted away.

The intercom to the block didn’t seem to be working. Lizzie rummaged around in her grab bag and retrieved Hadley’s fire-door master key. She’d found it dropped as if specially for her, just yards away from the roof of Portland Tower from which he had fallen. It haunted her – a talisman of his mastery of the lesser-known skills of policing that she felt she still did not possess. She stretched up on tiptoes but couldn’t reach the lock. She turned to Ash and held out the key.

‘You’ll have to do it.’

Ash took the key. ‘Bloody hell, what did I say? You’ve even got one of these. Only the really keen guys have these.’

‘I inherited it.’

He glanced at her, then reached up and slipped the key down into the lock. The door clicked open and he handed back the key. They made their way along the white concrete walkways to number 14, at the end of a row. The lights were on.

A white man, clad improbably for the time and place in a high-vis jacket, answered the door. He was overweight, with round cheeks that looked as though they were under pressure and whose surface was mapped out by a thousand burst capillaries. His bitten nails were stained with dirt. Both Lizzie and Ash had offered their warrant cards, but it had only been a formality. He’d known they were cops the instant he opened the door. He put one hand on the door frame and looked at them coolly: without ever having met before, they all knew each other.

‘What do you lot want?’

Ash said, ‘Can we come in?’

‘Tell me what it’s about first.’

‘No one’s in any trouble.’

‘You’re not coming in without a warrant—’

Lizzie interrupted. ‘Fergal, isn’t it?’

He nodded. Something about her demeanour had changed him.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Lizzie said, ‘but we do need to come in.’

Fergal hesitated, his face tense, as if he had already guessed what it was and wanted to think of a way to avoid what was to follow. Then he stepped back and let them walk past him into the living room. There was a strong smell of cannabis and on a large plasma screen a rerun of Master Chef was playing.

Julie was sitting on the sofa next to a fat pit bull dog which lay, its head resting on her lap, snoring quietly. Julie was thin and nervy, but with some style. She wore faded blue jeans and fingerless gloves, and was wrapped in a tartan blanket. The gloves suggested her circulation was bad after years of injecting, but they were beautiful nevertheless – Fair Isle patterns in the colours of autumn.

Ash offered the only single spare seat to Lizzie with an outstretched arm, but she refused and knelt on the floor opposite Julie. Ash took the seat beside her.

A low glass coffee table held the necessaries – cans of beer both opened and unopened, a large metal pub ashtray full of the dog-ends of roll-up cigarettes, a jumbo-size Rizla pack from which cardboard had been torn to make roaches.

On the wall was a framed photo of a baby with the legend One Year Wonderful. Next to it was a silver heart frame holding the image of Georgina in a ‘World’s Best Mum’ T-shirt. On her lap was Skye, as a toddler, wearing wellies and a tutu.

Ash glanced over quickly to Lizzie, but she ignored him because Julie was searching her face for the news she had brought. Her eyes were surprisingly beautiful and lively in a face that was otherwise marked by long years of drug use: a sunken look to her cheeks and neck, deep lines around her mouth and eyes. After all those drugs, the passion and desperation, the fights, the arrests, she had finally settled for a saggy old dog and evenings of television, with a joint or two to keep things peaceful. But confusion was about to enter again.

She said, ‘It’s Georgie, isn’t it?’

It was said fiercely, but it was clear that the real demand was for a refutation of her worst fears.

Neither Fergal nor Julie had offered to turn the television off so Lizzie had to give the death message to Georgina’s mother while the bald chef commented on one of the contestant’s meals.

Julie didn’t move, but her lips went white as she pressed them together. Then her left hand went up to cover her eyes and she leaned forward with her mouth open. The fingernails belonged to an adolescent: polished pink with hearts and glitter. It made Lizzie immediately think of Skye. From the television screen she heard the words What a fabulous thing to do with an aubergine. Fergal put his arm round Julie and rubbed her back. ‘I’m so sorry, love.’ Julie shook her head but did not speak. She pulled her feet up onto the sofa and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her.

After about a minute she looked at the two officers. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it.’

Lizzie nodded: simply believing was usually too difficult. It could take days, months. The truth might never really sink in. She too was finding it hard. Before her eyes Julie was going through those shifts of understanding, as if grief were a staged chemical reaction, each transformation changing her forever. Her face now was etched with a deep frown, her mouth a tight circle. She focused on Lizzie as if she were a midwife helping her to deliver.

‘Are you certain? Is she really dead?’

Lizzie experienced the usual temptation: to lie. After all, she didn’t want to believe it herself. To tell the truth plainly was a simple enough discipline, but who would not flinch from it? Faced with Julie’s denial, she felt her own confidence in the irreversible fact of Georgina’s death wavering.

‘Yes. I’m really sorry. It’s true.’

Julie shuddered, but she didn’t look down. Her mouth shaped into a twisted grimace. She spoke hoarsely. ‘And little Skye?’

Lizzie forced her voice not to fail her. ‘Skye’s missing, Julie.’

Julie nodded, but without comprehension. ‘Missing? What does that mean? Has he got her?’

‘We don’t know. The neighbour says she was with Georgina—’

She interrupted. ‘How did he kill her?’

Lizzie remembered the inspector’s description: multiple stab wounds. She searched for an alternative but found none. Ash, perhaps sensing her failure, stepped in.

‘They haven’t held the post-mortem yet. That’s when they establish the exact cause of death.’

‘But what do you know?’

‘The information we have is that she was injured with a bladed weapon.’

A bladed weapon.

It took Julie a moment to figure it out, and Lizzie watched the understanding dawning in an expression of horror. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘No.’

Julie concentrated her gaze on Lizzie again.

‘But you’re absolutely sure?’

Lizzie recalled Georgina and her beautiful, elegant feet, and Skye standing with her outstretched hand in which she held a loom band. The band, she realized, was still around her own wrist. It seemed an impossible burden to have to insist on this news when she was finding it so hard to comprehend herself. And then she thought again of the court and her own impulse. Die then. How could she ever have thought that? How could her sympathy have so failed her?

She said, ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Julie inhaled sharply and then started to sob, holding her head in her hands and rocking back and forth. A cry came out of the desperate blanketed bundle.

‘You have to find Skye! You have to.’

Lizzie leaned forward and put her hand on Julie’s knee. ‘They’re looking.’

On the television, the one with the bald head was doing a piece to camera. Something about puddings.

Julie suddenly stopped crying completely. She looked slightly crazed, furious even. ‘No, no. I can’t believe it.’

The dog lifted its head. It jumped down from the sofa and ran towards the door, ears pricked, tail wagging low. A shadow passed across the window.

Ash said quietly, ‘Are you expecting anyone?’

There was a knock at the door. A male voice, polite. ‘Julie, are you in there, dear? We need to talk.’

It was unmistakably Brannon in full charm mode. Lizzie spoke very softly. ‘Nobody reply. Julie, do you think he wants to hurt you?’

She nodded. ‘Probably. He hates me.’

Another knock. ‘Julie?’

Fergal spoke quietly but with complete conviction. ‘Let’s let him in. I’ll kill the bastard.’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘No. We need him alive to find Skye. If we let him in there’ll be a fight. He wants to hurt Julie and he’s got a knife. Worst thing would be to give him what he wants.’

A banging on the door had started and the dog began barking. Julie looked at Lizzie. There was a quiet urgency in her voice.

‘You can’t let him go. I’d rather die.’

Lizzie gestured towards the window at the far side of the room. ‘Can I get out the back there and round to the front?’

Julie nodded.

Lizzie moved quickly over to the window and began unlocking the catch. Ash joined her. ‘I’ll go,’ he said quietly.

‘No. One of us needs to stay with Julie and Fergal. You’re stronger than me if he forces entry. I’ll go round and keep an eye on him. You call for support.’

Ash, frozen by indecision, didn’t immediately reply. Then he said, ‘He’s killed, Lizzie.’

‘I’ll just keep an eye on him.’

‘Don’t bloody try to arrest him.’

‘I won’t.’

There was shouting from the walkway. ‘I know you’re awake. I can hear the telly and the fucking dog.’

Someone banged on the ceiling and a voice called out from upstairs. ‘Keep it down, you lot.’

Fergal and Julie were looking at the two police officers. Lizzie beckoned for them to come to the window.

Brannon’s voice again. ‘Open the door, you fucking bitch.’

Fergal, now standing beside them, said, ‘Let’s let him in. I can hold on to the bastard.’

More hammering. Lizzie shook her head and put her finger to her lips. ‘We’ll get him, don’t worry.’

She turned the volume on the radio as low it would go and passed it to Ash. ‘Transmit from the bedroom . . .’

He took it from her. ‘Duh!’

‘I’ll call you on my mobile.’

Ash grabbed her forearm tightly for a moment. ‘Keep back from him.’

Climbing out of the window, Lizzie heard Brannon at the door again. ‘I know you’re awake. Open the fucking door.’

She dropped down from the window ledge and jarred her ankle. Briefly she was distracted by the sharp pain. She bent to rub it, then ran into the shelter of the wall, calling Ash on her mobile. He accepted the call but neither of them spoke. She kept the call open as she moved around the perimeter of the building. From here she could see the exit from the walkway. She could hear banging and shouting. Lights were flicking on in the other flats. Above her, someone opened a window. She took her asp out of her harness and racked it, holding it concealed by her left side. Her heart was thumping.

She leaned back against the wall and breathed deeply. After another burst of banging and shouting, she heard footsteps approaching, then passing and fading as a man walked rapidly away. She dipped forward out of the shadows, looked to her left and saw Brannon in dark jeans and a military-style khaki jacket. She waited for him to cross the green and turn left onto the pavement before she spoke into her phone.

‘Left, left along Simmonds Street.’

‘Got it.’

Only when he was out of sight did she run lightly across the green and into the shadow of the further building. She leaned out beyond the wall and watched him disappearing up the road. He was walking quickly. She closed her asp and slotted it back into the harness, then stepped out onto the pavement and began talking into her phone.

‘Yes, I’m sorry I’m late. I’m on my way now . . . Don’t be like that.’

‘Very good,’ Ash mocked. ‘Very tradecraft, my dear. Just don’t get stabbed.’

Brannon was ahead at the far end of the road. He seemed to be holding something in his right hand, down by his leg. He turned right at a T-junction and she lost sight of him.

‘Right, right at the T-junction of Simmonds Street. Dark jeans, khaki jacket. Definitely Brannon. May be carrying a knife in his right hand.’

‘For fuck’s sake, keep back. He’d love to kill you.’

‘It’s OK. He can’t even see me.’

She broke into a light run and then slowed at the end of the street, regulating her breathing and trying to calm her demeanour before she turned right.

He was ahead, walking quickly. His right arm was stiff and Lizzie was sure she had caught the silver glint of a blade by his thigh.

She spoke into the phone. ‘I’ve told you not to worry, Mum.’

‘Very funny. I’ll mention that remark at your funeral. They’re on their way. About six minutes, they reckon. You sure it’s him?’

‘Positive. You got the description?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can hear a siren. Tell them to switch the bloody thing off.’

‘Get back. They don’t need you any more.’

‘He’s started to run. Left, left at the next junction. There’s a newsagent on the corner. I’m losing him.’

She was sprinting now, and as she rounded the corner, she could see he had gained a hundred yards on her. ‘I can’t keep up with him anyway.’

But then Brannon slowed and turned. He must have heard her running, known from her footfall that it was a solitary foot-chase.

‘He’s coming towards me.’

‘Really, not funny.’

‘No, he is.’

She dropped her phone and racked her asp. ‘Get back.’

He was walking purposefully towards her, the knife in his right hand. She saw it clearly now under the street light. It had a smooth blade, about eight inches long.

She shouted out, ‘Drop your weapon.’

Whatever he was shouting was incomprehensible. His face was wide, his eyes staring. She recognized this demeanour and guessed it was drugs making him look so crazy and invincible. He was holding the knife in a clenched fist with the blade facing up. In an absurd instant, all that officer safety training came back to her and she remembered how ineffective she had always felt when practising fighting against someone holding a knife. They’d laughed about it!

She had minutes, seconds perhaps, before he stabbed her. She stepped behind a lamp post, trying to use it as cover, striving for determination. Keep thinking. Keep fighting. A stabbing she had attended: blood all over the road. He was close, and in the urban half-darkness she could see a black stain on the blade of the knife. The training came back to her like a prompt for the multiple choice exam. Keep out of his fighting arc. He lunged and she stepped back and swung her asp, missing him completely. She had lost the cover of the lamp post. There was nothing between her and the knife now. He lunged again, swiping the blade upwards in a brutal sweep that moved through the midline of her body. But he had underestimated her speed and was momentarily off balance. She stepped diagonally forward, swinging her asp hard. Her voice escaped her in a grunt like a tennis player’s at Wimbledon.

The impact of the blow jarred her hand. Brannon didn’t drop the knife, but he bent over, shaking his wrist. She swung again, at his head, but even now she lacked the conviction for this brutality and he swerved easily away from it. He stood straight and stepped towards her, speaking quietly.

‘You little cunt.’

She wanted to run, but he was too close and she didn’t dare turn her back. She was deaf and blind to everything except him. She drew the asp back to strike again, but he darted forward, moving the blade from left to right, criss-crossing it in front of his body.

‘Want some of this, cunt face?’

The stain of blood on the blade was clear now. She needed to hit him again: one good blow. She moved backwards and said, ‘Please, don’t.’

‘Turned her against me, didn’t you? You cunt. You little cunt.’

He lunged forward again. Lizzie, retreating quickly, missed her footing on the kerb behind her. She fell, backwards and out of control. There was a splash of sharp pain in her sacrum.

The ground: the worst place to be. He was standing over her, his feet either side of her hips. In that instant, he was strangely familiar – his round head and pale eyes – and suddenly she was in the grip of terror. She could see every stabbing she’d ever been to. She twisted, tried to get on her side to kick. The asp still drawn back in her right hand; her left hand fumbling for her gas under her armpit.

He leaned down. She twisted and sprayed her gas. She couldn’t see anything. She lashed out blindly and felt the impact of her asp hitting hard. Her eyes were stinging and beginning to stream. There was an impact in her shoulder, like a punch. Headlights were spilling down the road. She hit out again but made no contact. A glorious blurred flood of blue lights and a deafening siren. She felt another pain, a hard thump in her forearm. He had turned and was running, the blurred soles of his shoes disappearing down the streaming road. Blood was falling on her face.

A paramedic with a wide face and beaded braids was crouching down, offering her gas and air. She took deep gulps. She could see more clearly now, but her nose was streaming from the CS. Her head was spinning. People were working on her, cutting her clothing. Torn dressing packs were discarded on the tarmac and she saw blood too, like a spill of ink. The thump of her pulse in her ears. A police officer had his hand on her shoulder. She clocked the holster on his hip. He leaned in to her: short grey hair, thin face.

‘Do you know where he’s cut you, love?’

But she was thinking suddenly of where Brannon might be running to.

‘Marley,’ she said.

The paramedic passed her the mask again. ‘Take a deep inhale. We’re going to lift you in a second.’

‘Marley,’ she repeated before she inhaled and lay back. They were fitting the scoop around her and raising her up. Above her, the beating blades of the police helicopter searching for Brannon.