On the way back to Camden, Flyte passed Old St Pancras, the medieval church where Poppy’s naming ceremony would be held in two days’ time. Seeing that the lights were on, she tried the ancient oak door and found it unlocked. As she went in, a couple of young women came out, one of them carrying a cello case. Presumably an early evening rehearsal.
Taking the steps down into the cool and hush was like lowering herself into well water. Sitting in one of the empty pews she imagined the thousand-year-old stone walls enclosing and embracing her, unwinding her shoulders and spine muscles. Already she felt as though she could sense Poppy’s presence here.
Flyte had only once visited the hospital memorial garden where her daughter’s ashes had been scattered to the winds, mixed willy-nilly with those other babies. Never again. It had felt like a municipal space: anonymous and unloved, planted with the sort of low-maintenance shrubs you saw in supermarket car parks.
Her mind circled back to what she was going to do about Willets. Her every instinct rebelled against the idea of a police officer being capable of murder – two murders, if Sean and Luke really had been killed eight years apart by the same person. But if it was true that Willets had on another occasion caught Sean Kavanagh committing a public decency offence and never mentioned it, he had some serious questions to answer.
Maybe Luke Lawless had got the wrong end of the stick and the whole thing really was about steroid dealing – with Bethany in it up to her neck. Perhaps Willets had caught Sean dealing and started taking backhanders to keep quiet? A year ago she would never have believed it, but given the recent deluge of police misconduct scandals – like the outflow from a broken sewer pipe – she no longer ruled anything out.
Those stories made her sick to her stomach, even more so because she knew the scumbags represented a minority among hard-working officers committed to making people’s lives better, even if in somewhere like Camden that could seem like a Sisyphean task.
What to do, though? Confront Willets? He was hardly likely to confess, and if she was wrong it would make their current relationship look like a warm rapport. It was an unenviable position to be in, and one that could end with her having to leave Major Crimes for a new job. Traffic duties in deepest Essex, probably. The only person senior enough to discuss it with was DCI Steadman. He was still away at his conference, but she could get him on the phone and just lay it out to him in a matter-of-fact way? Then it was off her plate and onto his – or more likely the Directorate of Professional Standards.
And what if she was wrong? She’d already informed on Willets once, for something that had turned out to be no more than a minor transgression.
She had never felt so torn: if she did the right thing, she risked everything blowing up in her face. But if she let it slide, she could be covering up police involvement in a serious crime.
Hearing her phone chiming, she silenced the ring tone and stepped outside.
‘What can I do for you?’
Feeling that familiar muddle of warmth and irritation at hearing Cassie’s voice, saying, ‘You might want to get down here.’